


This just ain't living

by Xenay



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depressed Sherlock, Gen, Implied/Referenced Anorexia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lots of Angst, Major Depression, Mental Illness, Mention of past anorexia, Mycroft is a good brother (later on), Mycroft is not good, Suicidal Sherlock, What Have I Done, medical terms are stupid, mention of past eating disorder, oh god the drama and angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2020-02-16 07:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18686503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenay/pseuds/Xenay
Summary: ALL MY WORKS ARE CURRENTLY ON HOLD DUE TO PERSONAL REASONS!!! SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCEJohn didn't worry when Sherlock Holmes was silent inside his room and started to avoid him.He threatened to call Mycroft, when Sherlock wouldn't eat for a week - without a case.He began to grow concerned when his flatmate couldn't get up from his bed and walk the short way to the bathroom.And John nearly dialled 999 when he found a not moving, not responsive Sherlock on the floor with a broken glass.Or the one where I pour my heart out and vent in fiction about my 'life' with chronic/clinical major depression. (Lord help me..)





	1. Please don't shut me out

**Author's Note:**

> Well.. I wrote something for autism awareness month, and May is mental illness awareness month so... sigh.. please just heed the tags.. triggering and all that..

 

They finished a pretty long and tiring case. Sherlock rated it a 12 out of 10, before he fell into his bed after they finally managed to catch the criminal after two long weeks.

 

John figured he'd make Sherlock eat in the morning - or rather maybe afternoon, probably a day later before he would finally wake up again.

 

 

#

 

 

He hadn't come out all day, as John suspected. Because other than him, the detective hasn't slept in the entire time it had taken to catch the criminal. Same went for eating. However that was even possible, the doctor didn't know.

 

When he did hear the door open, he heard feet shuffling at a slow pace, the bathroom door opening, closing, and not even two minutes later opening again, and the steps retreated back into the bedroom, the door was closed again.

 

John frowned at the book he was reading. Should he check on him?

 

He decided to just make him a few slices of toast and a cup of tea - he didn't want him drinking coffee after being awake to long and finally getting some rest.

 

After he had prepared the plate he went to his flatmates room and gently knocked on the door. He didn't get an answer, so he slowly opened it. The room was completely dark, the lights off and curtains drawn, and he noticed the form of his friend laying with his back to him, curled up in fetal position.

 

"Sherlock?" John softly said.

 

"Mm.." came a delayed response from under the blanket.

 

"I got you breakfast", he decided to just call it that, instead of all the meals he had missed, "I'll put it down here." John said and put the plate and tea cup on his nightstand next to the bed.

 

He then left him again. He would make certain that he ate something once he wasn't in his hibernation-like state.

 

 

#

 

 

The next morning he found that the plate and tea were empty, and replaced them with new and filled ones.

 

Later on he would hear him walk to the bathroom in zombie style again, then back to his room.

 

 

It went on like this for almost an entire week before his flatmate finally joined him in the living room. Albeit for half an hour, and he fell asleep on the sofa, but it was progress.

 

John didn't worry much. It had been the longest case they ever had, and Sherlock was still alive. He would push through, no matter how humanely impossible.

 

 

#

 

 

Two weeks later they had gotten an easier case, around a 5 or 6. It was solved in 2 and a half days. Though John seemed a bit surprised, because Sherlock seemed very absent near the end. When the doctor had asked him about his wellbeing, the detective had of course dismissed it. "I'm fine, John. Just tired, so let me solve this darn case."

 

In hindsight he probably should have been more concerned. When did he _ever_ state that he was 'tired'? Sherlock Holmes, the machine, could be tired? And admit so?

 

 

 

#

 

 

He was avoiding him, John was almost a hundred percent certain of that. He hadn't picked up his violin since a week before what John came to name 'The Ultimate Case' on his blog, and John was starting to miss the soft sounds of his violin playing at 4 in the morning.

 

John also noticed that his general movements were.... slower. As if he was moving at 0.5x, or everyone around him at 2x speed. It concerned him just the smallest bit. But he had shrugged it off as still being aftershocks from 'The Ultimate Case'.

 

 

#

 

 

It was getting worse.

 

Whatever the hell **it**  was, it was getting worse.

 

John felt like he was literally watching a beautiful flower wither to brown before it dropped the dead blossoms. And then died itself.

 

He felt like was watching every gram of fat his flatmate ever had, just fall off and only leave exposed bones. Sherlock had become dangerously thin. Emaciated. Malnourished. And this even though John made sure to get meat, carbs and vegetables into him. He even threatened to make him swallow vitamin supplements if his skin grew any more grey.

 

 

#

 

 

One day he refused to eat what John had prepared, saying he 'didn't feel like eating right now'.

 

That lasted a week, in which he again didn't leave his room except for the rare bathroom visit.

 

John threatened to call Mycroft if he didn't start eating soon.

 

 

#

 

 

Sherlock became slower. John was going to say he now moved at 0.025x speed.

Something was definitely wrong. So very, very wrong.

 

He was a doctor. But he needed more data. He needed to know the symptoms. But Sherlock never said a word.

 

Not even that he was fine.

 

John felt sick with worry.

 

 

#

 

 

A week later he woke up at night. At first he didn't know what had woken him. But he couldn't fall back asleep. So he decided to go downstairs and get a drink from the faucet.

 

 

When he reached the lobby he was certain that he knew what had woken him.

 

He almost didn't believe it, but he heard it.

 

Sobbing.

 

Very silent sobbing, mostly the sniffling could be heard, and John felt his stomach drop.

 

Should he go to him?

 

Would he hate him if John intruded on him in this fragile state?

 

He made up his mind and decided that his friend needed him. Probably way more than John could understand right now.

 

He softly knocked at his door, and to his dismay he heard a startled gasp.

 

John decided it was now or never, and opened the door. He found his best friend sitting on the edge of his bed, an already used tissue in his hands as he blowed his nose.

 

John could only describe the sight as his friend falling apart, right before his eyes. And he didn't know why.

 

What happened? What was so bad that it made the great Sherlock Holmes fall so far down, reducing him to tears in the middle of the night?

 

"Sorry I woke you.." were the first words he heard him say in.... a long time. His voice was filled with so much pain, cracking and scratching from disuse.

 

"You got nothing to be sorry about!" John told him exasperatedly. How could he apologize for being so.... _broken_?! "Will you tell me what's wrong?" He asked in the most gentle voice and went to sit down next to him on the bed and wrap him into his arms.

 

His heart broke further when the detective emitted more painful sobs, not silencing them this time.

 

He only hugged him tighter.

 

 

They sat like that for a while. Time had stopped still as John listened to the heart-shattering sounds.

 

 

When Sherlock had calmed down enough to talk, he told him "this is worse than withdrawal."

"What is?" John asked him concerned.

 

"Everything just hurts.. it's like all my nerves, muscle and bone fibers are on fire and tearing themselves apart, with acid running over it and-" he broke off into a sob again. "And nothing's helping. I've tried _everything_ and probably almost overdosed three times.." he admitted, not afraid or not caring that this is scaring news.

 

"Jesus", John breathed. What is this? Fibromyalgia? Rheumatism?

 

Whatever, finding answers could wait until morning. He first had to help his friend with the acute problem.

 

"Come on, I'll draw you a hot bath, that should help ease the pain." He told him gently, and only hoped that this was the case.

 

Sherlock only nodded and let John go to the bathroom and get everything ready for him.

 

 

#

 

 

John had stayed awake all night after Sherlock finally got some sleep. The hot water had helped after about half an hour, although it couldn't get rid of the pain entirely, it lessened it enough for Sherlock to fall asleep.

 

His mind was going over every possible medical problem, every disease.

 

So he knew that his friend had severe pains, and not just last night but at least on a few other occasions - if he took meds and more meds and nothing helped - if not every day.

 

He was moving slower. Much slower.

 

He had dark rings under his eyes.

 

He seemed to be tired almost all the time and was mostly sleeping the days away.

 

He had lost weight.

 

He didn't want to eat sometimes. Or rather didn't 'feel like it'.

 

He hadn't touched his violin in over two months.

 

He showed no interest in getting a new case.

 

He was at a point of utter devastation that left him in tears of desperation.

 

 

John came to one conclusion:

 

This was serious.

 

 

 

#

 

 

 

The next day he decided to have a serious talk with him.

 

Sherlock was still only clad in his bed sheets since his bath last night. John sat with him on the detective's bed, as his friend drank some tea.

 

"So, um.. I've been thinking and.. Sherlock, I think this is serious. _Very_ serious." John told him.

 

Sherlock didn't look at him, his gaze was set on the tea in his hands that lay limply on the knees of his crossed legs (Indian style position). "I know." He replied.

 

John blinked. "You.. know?"

 

Sherlock didn't show any acknowledgement for a moment. "This.. isn't the first time this happened, although the pain was never this bad. Nothing was ever _**this**_ bad." He mumbled.

 

John's eyes widened. "This happened before? And what is 'this', then?"

 

Sherlock set down his tea on the nightstand, still refusing to look John in the eye with his red and puffy eyes. "Well, the therapist at the psych hospital said it was a 'Major Depressive Episode', though it never really goes away. I bet you it's been chronic since over twenty years." He said with zero emotion, and John suspected that he really didn't feel anything but numbness inside.

 

It would explain the severe pain. His brain stopped causing psychological pain and showed it in physical form now.

 

And by the severity he had seen last night, John was pretty sure that he had to have been in horrible, severe emotional pain beforehand.

 

A shudder went down his back when he realized what this meant. "Sherlock, um... I just need to know, because it's so common it's pretty much a _symptom_ nowadays... did you ever harm yourself? Intentionally? Besides the drugs?"

 

Sherlock looked back down in his lap in shame.

 

"I'm not asking to make you feel bad. It's okay, I promise." He told him gently, even though from the reaction of his friend he already guessed what the answer was.

 

Sherlock nodded. "You promise you won't be mad?" He looked in John's general direction but wouldn't meet his eyes.

 

"I promise. I know you would never do something without reason, even if it's just to let out the emotional pain. I understand." John smiled sadly at him, and felt kind of sad that his friend didn't trust him enough to know that he would never judge him.

 

Sherlock dropped the sheet from his upper body, and John could clearly see the multiple - what must be at least 150 - scars that littered his arms. And to his own dismay he noticed five that couldn't have been older than two days.

 

"I'm sorry.." Sherlock suddenly said, pulling the sheet back over his body and arms.

 

"I told you, it's okay. I'm just sorry you felt like doing that." John reassured him, or at least he hoped so. "Just please don't shut me out anymore."

 

Sherlock only nodded and took the tea into his hands again.

 

 


	2. Forcing yourself and overdoing it are a very thin line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally here is the second half of the story summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all a big thanks to everyone <3 
> 
> Your lovely comments are really helping me actually writing things down that I never thought I would share with anyone.
> 
> This will be one huge drama with tons of angst, I can already tell. Story of my life. Literally.

 

 

 

"I feel better."

 

"I still don't think you're ready for a case."

 

"You know that you got to force yourself to do things to get back to the living."

 

They were arguing for ten minutes now. Lestrade had offered a small case, that was maybe a 3 at most, after Sherlock had texted him to please give him _anything_ , because he needed a distraction.

 

He only wanted to write this whole ordeal off as just a bad episode, and he would be fine again. Just fine. He wouldn't fall back down again. He wouldn't let John see him like that ever again.

 

"Fine. Just don't overdo it. We have to start slowly." John said, defeated

 

"It's a three at most. How much slower can this be?" Sherlock asked him.

 

 

 

#

 

 

 

Twenty minutes was all it took to solve it, but the deductions and the travel had sucked out any kind of energy he had restored.

 

He collapsed on his bed the second they got back home, and laid in bed with his upper half on his chest with his arms and hands bent next to his shoulders, and the rest was turned to the side to the door, knees bent in fetal position.

He fell asleep some time in the evening, not bothering to get up and grab a drink or go to the bathroom beforehand. His eyelids just dropped closed and it was too hard to open them again.

 

 

#

 

 

His body felt even more paralyzed when he woke up some time the next day, in exactly the same position he fell asleep in. He only managed to open his eyes for about two seconds before they closed again. And Sherlock didn't have the energy to open them again.

 

 

#

 

 

He didn't know how much time had passed, but his brain finally remembered that he hadn't been to the bathroom in probably over half a day by now, judging by the feeling that whatever small amount of urine had been in his bladder felt like it turned into pure acid and burning away at the walls of his bladder.

 

He'd have to get up, now. He sort of registered that it could be very harmful if he didn't.

 

He told his body to move.

 

Friggin MOVE!

 

At least move an arm and push yourself up!

 

But he didn't have it in him. He just didn't have the energy, and no matter how long he slept his battery was still at -10%. With a sigh he closed his eyes and drifted away from reality again.

 

 

#

 

 

He next time he wakes up he is sure that either he manages to get up, or he will have to willingly wet himself before his insides are burned from acid.

 

His body hasn't become any more alive, and he still felt trapped as if his body was covered in invisible rocks that just push him down and make it impossible to move.

 

He needed help. Now.

 

He had to call out for John. He could hear him faintly typing on his laptop. His muddled brain couldn't be bothered about the 'what about'.

 

 _John!_ he yelled in his mind. His body wasn't responding, his throat didn't work. He only breathed, never making any sound. Not even the tiniest moan.

 

 _John! John please!_ he kept yelling inside his head, but no actual words would leave him.

 

 _Open your damn mouth! Oh come on.._ he felt desperate. He felt like he was in a waking coma. He sort of knew what was going on around him, but he couldn't respond in any way.

 

 _God help me..._ he didn't believe in God - it was much too illogical. Yet right now he wished there was someone with a higher power that could give him strength, just for one minute.

 

He felt his eyes burning as they welled up with tears of desperation and hopeless.

 

 _No,_ he told himself. He wasn't one for giving up. He managed to clench a fist around the edge of his blanket.

 

He pulled his head up a bit, forced his mouth to open and licked at his dry and chapped lips.

 

"John.."

 

Breathe.

 

It was so exhausting to just mumble a single word. How ridiculous.

 

"John." He managed a bit louder.

 

_Come on, you can do it. For gods sakes._

 

"John!" He called. "John!! Help!!" And with that his head fell back down on the pillow, all strength leaving him as suddenly as it had come.

 

His door opened. He was heard.

 

Sherlock sniffed.

 

"Jesus. Sherlock? Sherlock what's wrong?" John asked as he strode over.

 

Sherlock had to breathe, as if that lent him the strength to say just a few words. "Help.. me.." he managed as tears finally fell down his face.

 

John grew even more concerned, if that was even possible by now. "Help with what? What do you need? How can I help?"

 

Sherlock needed a moment again before finally mumbling "bathroom.. use.."

 

John's face morphed into the saddest frown imaginable. "Alright, let's get you up, then." The doctor said and gently grabbed him around the chest and turned his upper body in the same direction as his legs were. When he got him halfway up he moved a hand to the backs of his knees and pulled them to the edge of the bed so he could sit up.

 

"Can you manage to sit like this for a minute?" He asked him once he was sure that he wouldn't fall back down like a ragdoll. Sherlock nodded.

 

John gave a quick nod and rushed to the bathroom, and seconds later he returned with their cleaning bucket. "There is just no way you can walk all the way and back, and I can't carry you with my shoulder." He explained, even though Sherlock had already known it.

 

He probably should have felt pathetic for being too weak to make it to the bathroom, much less on his own, and having to pee into a bucket - which his friend would have to clean because of him.

 

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before, remember?" John said and grinned at him when Sherlock had hesitated, before the doc realized that his friend most likely couldn't move his pants on his own.

 

He was a hundred percent sure that his theory was correct. He felt like his urethra now had acid burns as well, but he was actually too tired- exhausted- drained, to even flinch. He could actually _feel_ the dark rings under his eyes.

 

John brought the bucket back to the bathroom without a comment

 

Sherlock let himself fall back against the mattress and pillow, this time his whole body laying on the side, his legs still dangling off.

 

John then brought him a glass of water. "Think you can drink something for me? I don't want to say anything but it was not a healthy color - or smell for that matter." He left away the part about how much it must have hurt him.

 

Sherlock pushed him upper body up with the last of his strength, and John brought the glass to his lips and tilted it lightly.

 

He managed a small mouth full before his eyes almost rolled back and he collapsed back onto the bed.

 

John must have taken that as a 'let me sleep' signal, because the last thing Sherlock remembered was the sound of his door closing shut.

 

 

#

 

 

He had no idea what time or day it was when he woke up again. His mouth and throat felt so parched it was painful. After a pretty painful swallow he opened his eyes to look at te nightstand and realized that John had taken the water with him again when he left.

 

_Come on, Sherlock. Man up a bit. You've been lazy enough. Time to get back to life._

 

He pushed himself up and waited for the dizziness to subside. Then he managed to push himself up from the bed and nearly crashed to the floor if he hadn't stretched out a hand against the wall to keep himself up. Once he felt steady he went for his door, all the while keeping a hand sliding on the wall.

 

He managed pretty well the short way to the kitchen, that felt as though he went all the way from Baker Street to New Scotland Yard.

 

He hadn't thought about case work at all, lately. He felt like months had passed already, but his common sense knew it couldn't have been that long. But it was still a big difference to when he constantly wished for an interesting case, no matter how many he solved.

He had simply forgotten about the things he loved. Same with his violin. When was the last time he even touched it? He longed for it, but at the same time the idea of actually picking it up, tuning it and actually playing it seemed impossible.

 

 

Just like somehow the motion of opening the kitchen cupboard, taking out a glass, closing it again, and filling the glass with simple tab water was apparently strenuous work that filled him with a sharp stab of emotional pain and brought tears back to his eyes.

 

He managed two gulps before his grip on the glass faltered, and his legs couldn't support him anymore.

 

 

 

#

 

 

 

John was startled awake by the sound of glass shattering, just followed by a concerningly loud THUMP!

 

He immediately rushed out of his bedroom down the stairs, taking two at a time, and came to a halt when he saw the form of his friend laying there on the kitchen floor on his side, and a broken glass that spilled water around it. "Jesus..." John breathed as he took in the sight. He had to do something. This was dangerous.

 

He went over to his phone on the coffee table and already dialed 999, only had to press the green button when his eyes fell on his flatmate. He laid there, completely unresponsive, with red and puffy eyes that stared at nothing.

 

John looked back down to the phone, then back at his friend.

 

No. He couldn't do that to him. They would only lock him up, drive him more crazy, make him commit suicide even. Anything to escape it all.

 

With a sigh he put his phone into the pocket of his pajamas and over to his friend. He kneeled down next to him and picked up a few of the shards. He stopped after only a few and laid his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

 

His friend needed _**help**_. And John didn't know how to help him anymore. His friend couldn't take care of himself anymore. He couldn't live a normal life - never could, but this.. this wasn't living. It was just barely surviving.

 

Unbeknownst to him, grey, red rimmed eyes were looking up at him, thinking the same thing.

 

Something had to change.

 

Now.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually drew this last scene. I had gotten the inspiration to actually do that and start this story from a very similar experience: after I couldn't eat or drink for two days I had gone to the kitchen to get a water bottle, and then I lost all strength and just sat there on the cold tiles for who knows how long, just crying because it is so devastating.
> 
> Anyways, since I still haven't figured out how to get the pictures actually showing instead of white empty squares, here is the link: 
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/xxenayx/art/This-just-ain-t-living-fanfic-cover-796157681


	3. What if I just gave up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will sound a bit dark and angsty, but please keep in mind that I have a different mindset now than I did before. 
> 
>  
> 
> No matter what you think, none of my works will ever be Johnlock. Romance doesn't cure illness. It can give strength and motivation but it doesn't cure.  
> I certainly know because it only broke us completely apart after years of being together, and double that time of being friends. 
> 
> Also a little warning for mentioning of suicide scars.

 

His hair was falling out. 

 

John noticed the dark curls laying about the whole flat. Even his own bedroom upstairs hadn't escaped them.

 

John also realized that Sherlock wasn't growing any beard hairs whatsoever. He was a hundred percent sure that his friend had not shaved for a long time. Definitely not since this all started to go down.

 

He had complained about them this morning, when he had somehow gotten one of the curly hairs on his breakfast.

 

Sherlock had been with him at the table and only shrugged. "It's not like I can just tell them to stay on my head, John." He had glared at the doctor, and John could have hugged him in his joy. That was the first 'normal Sherlockian' thing his friend had done in weeks.

 

After they ate - Sherlock only managed a slice of toast but it was _something_ \- John put their plates into the dishwasher. 

 

"I'll go run to the shops real quick. We are out of milk, again." John told him as he dressed up his jacket and shoes.

 

Sherlock hadn't responded. He would never tell John, but he had voices. And as soon as John had complained about the hairs everywhere, they were having a party inside his skull. 

 

** He hates you **

** You always leave messes everywhere! **

** Jesus how does he even still put up with you **

** Why can't you just die- **

 

"No! Shut up! Shut up shut up Shut Up!" He muttered and pulled at his hair, accidentally coming back with a bunch of loose hairs tangled around his fingers. 

 

He had to do something about this, or he would walk around half bald again, like last time. He went over to his room to look for his phone, and sent John a text saying 

 

Pick up caffeine shampoo.

 

SH

 

Then he set it back down on his night table. As he sat in silence, the voices started up again, a millisecond after he had texted John.

 

** And now you're asking favors of him. What did you ever do to even _deserve_ him? **

 

** You're a big good for nothing. **

 

 

He had to do something. Before he would use the blade again in a desperate attempt at silencing them.

 

He figured that since the hairs were his mess, he may as well clean the flat. 

 

He looked through the small storage room and pulled out the vacuum cleaner. He still had bags under his eyes and didn't have the energy that normal people would have, but he had more than he had in a while. He could clean the flat with this. That should be easy enough.

 

He plugged it in and began with the kitchen.

 

 

#

 

 

Well. He had managed the kitchen, the living and bath room. 

 

Before he suddenly collapsed in tears and sweat on the bathroom floor and Mrs Hudson came storming up the stairs. 

 

"Oh dear." She said to herself and rushed over to him, turning the vacuum cleaner off. She leaned over to the cabinets and grabbed a pack of tissues, opened it and gave one to the distraught man. 

 

After blowing his nose and drying his eyes he told her with a broken-heart sounding voice "I j-just wan-ted to cleeaan.." 

 

She pulled him into a quick hug and said into his curls "I know.. I know.."

 

Sherlock sniveled and she pulled away. "How about this: I finish this up, and you go make yourself a nice cuppa?" She asked and smiled at him. 

 

He only nodded and pulled himself to his feet with the sink counter. 

 

He felt like he was going to be sick. But he didn't fear that he would be. The last time be threw up was when he was a kid, and that was because if a stomach bug. In fact, he sometimes felt sick enough that he actually gave one dry-heave but that was it. He was almost certain that he had an inability to vomit. 

 

He waited for the water to boil faster as his mind was plagued with the nasty demons again.

 

**You can't even clean the house! Other people your age work all day, 6 days a week! And you? You just start bawling like a two year old who'sice cream fell on the ground!**

**God you're so utterly useless.** (He could practically feel that one shake its head at him with the arms crossed over the chest.)

 

He was pulled out of the torment by the sharp whistling of the water steam.

 

 

#

 

 

Mrs Hudson was done in less than five minutes - at least that's what Sherlock thought - and he could hear the voices laughing at him even more about his pathetic excuse for a human being.

 

She sat down on John's chair at the table and gave him a honey grin. "It's alright, dearie. Please stop crying." She asked in such a sweet and soft voice, and it's only then that he realized that he still had tears running down his face every now and then. 

 

He quickly wiped them away with his hands, right as their door opens. "Sherlock! I'm back! .. And I wasn't sure which- what happened?" He had two shampoo bottles in his hands and stood there like a deer caught in headlights.

 

If everything had been 'normal', John would have thought that maybe he had gotten news like his mother had died or something. It was still a possibility, but John was certain that that was not the case, since he hadn't gotten kidnapped or called by his brother. 

 

"What's wrong?" He asked again when all he got was a sympathetic smile from Mrs Hudson.

 

"It's nothing serious, John. We just decided to clean the flat while you were gone." She told him, and Sherlock burst out a sad 'hah'. 

 

" _She_ cleaned the flat." He said and sniffed.

 

"No. _We_ did, Sherlock. You did most of it, I just finished where you-...."

 

John felt like he knew where this was going, and had the picture of his friend, laying lethargic on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night, in his head. He bit his lip at the thought and put down the bottles on the kitchen table.

 

"..where I was too _pathetic_ to continue. Just say it." Sherlock said with tons of venom, startling both.

 

"Sherlock! You are **_not_** pathetic! Jesus.. where is this coming from all of a sudden?" John said as one of his hands slid down his face. He knew that low self esteem was normal with Sherlocks..... disorder.

 

Sherlock internally cringed, at himself. Why had he said that? 

"I'm sorry.." he muttered, although he wasn't sure why he said it, he just felt like this was right, in this moment.

 

Mrs Hudson tutted at him, although lovingly. 

 

"Sherlock.." John started and felt his heart clenching, not even sure what he should say in this moment. They didn't train him for situations like this in med school. "Look, this is great." He suddenly said with forced joy.

 

Sherlock and Mrs H looked at him like he'd lost it now.

 

"Look at you! Just a few days ago you couldn't even get out of bed, and now you actually went and cleaned, on your own accord! This is progress!" He explained and grinned for real now.

 

"John.." Sherlock started when he looked away from John. 

 

"No Sherlock, this is amazing! You-"

 

"- fucking broke down in the bathroom from fucking vacuum cleaning one. _Fucking_. Time!!!" He snapped, and the others flinched at every, so rare swear word left the detective's mouth. 

 

John looked down and bit his lip again, Mrs Hudson made an 'ooh' and put her hands in half-fists over her mouth in shock. And Sherlock went and locked himself into his room after slamming the door.

 

 

# (fitting music: Linkin Park - Breaking The Habit)

 

 

Sherlock leaned with his back against the door after he had locked it and heaved a heavy sigh. 

 

He shouldn't have said anything. He should have just shut up. Accept their words. Act like he was actually better. Pretend that he was alright.

 

But he just _wasn't_. 

 

He felt drained, he was cold- almost like he was freezing, and he felt unbelievably angry at himself. 

 

Angry for being useless. 

Angry for being so weak.

Angry for being so pathetic.

Angry for being 'sick' with an imaginary illness. 

 

 

He had none other to blame than himself. 

 

_What if I just.. stopped? Stopped fighting?_

The doctors said that this would keep happening. That he'd never know how long he could 'feel like a normal person' before he would be in the relentless grip of the 'illness' again. So why bother? 

 

He could hear the door to the flat open and close. 

 

**They left you. They are sick of you.**

**Always told you they hated you.**

**Fuck-up.**

 

He sighed again and pushed himself away from his room door.

 

"Sherlock?" John hadn't left?

 

"I just want you to know I'm here.. if you want to talk. I know you probably don't but.. just know I'm here for you, yeah? We can just watch crap telly, we don't have to talk, just please don't shut me out again."

 

Sherlock then heard his steps retreating. 

 

**Do it. Kill yourself. You won't do him any good if you keep worrying him like this.***

**If you die he will have one worry less in his life.**

**He could finally live the life he always wanted. You keep holding him back.**

 

_Would you just SHUT UP for a moment?!_ He mentally yelled at them. _You always say the same, you're boring me_.

 

He didn't feel as confident as he tried to be, though. Not even half of it. He just wanted them to shut up. He really didn't want to use his blade. He hated it. Hated the pain that he knew he deserved from it. The punishment he gave himself for causing others trouble and worry. 

 

He decided that if he stayed alone for longer in his room, he would end up doing something he would regret later, and went to unlock the door.

 

**You really want to annoy him further? You know how much he hates it when you constantly correct the telly.**

 

His hand halted on the key for a moment before shaking his head. He turned it and opened the door.

 

**No! Go back! You can still turn around!**

 

But he didn't. He sat down on the sofa, with John in his armchair, giving him a smile.

 

 

#

 

 

Sherlock didn't comment once on the stupid shows. He was only halfway in reality. He felt too drained by now, his brain couldn't hear the people on TV talking anymore - it was all just blurred sound.

 

He kept shifting, which wasn't normal behavior of him. John often called him a human statue. 

 

The pains were starting up again. They always differed, but it was still the same thing. Often it started in his knees. As the pain grew worse in them, to the point where he couldn't bend them as he walked, the pain spread down his shins like sun rays, and started up in his hip joints. After a while it climbs up on his back, and affects his entire body in the end. 

 

Currently it had started in his wrists and hip joints. The problem with the latter, and which was pretty much the same problem with every other joints, no matter what position he changes into, the pain never lessens. 

 

As he tiredly blinked at the TV and shifted again, John suddenly called his name. 

 

Sherlock blinked rapidly for a second before realizing that John had called him. He looked over to him and gave a "hm?"

 

"It's starting again, isn't it? The pain? You definitely don't look comfortable." He said and had Sherlock the usual speed of thought, he would have figured out that John was deeply concerned and probably sorry for him.

 

He only nodded weakly. "I overdid it, I think." He probably looked as drained as he felt, and rubbed at his eyes again, literally feeling the darker skin under them. 

 

"Wait here, I'll draw you a bath." John said and quickly got up. 

 

 

#

 

 

When Sherlock was in the bathroom, the tub was filled and the only thing you could see were tons of foam bubbles. John had even laid down fresh clothes for him.

 

He probably should have felt weird about the fact that John had gone through his underwear, but found that he didn't give a damn. He was a doctor, and a man, after all.

 

He was in just his underpants when he sat down on the tub rim and pulled his pants and socks off, when John burst back in. "Sorry! Just.. thought we could wash your hair while you're in there." He said and held out the new caffeine shampoo bottles.

 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. "We?"

 

John shifted a bit. "Well I could help you, if you want. No offense but I don't think you feel much like taking care of yourself at the moment."

 

Sherlock shrugged and removed his wrist watch from the left arm, and John was startled.

 

He already knew about the scars on his arms, but he hadn't seen this one before. It was definitely a suicide scar, there was no doubt about what purpose this one was supposed to have. 

 

Because other than the horizontal scars that went in straight lines from the thumb to the pinkie finger side, this one didn't go straight. It went down like the back slash ( \ ) on the PC keyboard on the inside of his arm, a bit below the wrist and definitely over the artery. 

 

Sherlock didn't notice and had already stepped into the bathtub and let the hot water do it's work. John must have put oils in it as well, judging by the feeling of his skin.

 

Sherlock also realized that he had lost more weight. His shins barely held any fat and seemed the same as his lower arms now. He could also feel his entire knee joint anatomy by tracing his fingers over them. 

 

John felt awkward watching his friend doing.... things under the water, and cleared his throat. "Call me if you need help with your hair." He said before quickly retreating.

 

Sherlock only blinked at his retreating friend before letting himself slowly down into the water. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS if you find any spelling mistakes or wrongly used words in any chapter, I'd be grateful if you tell me. Because I sadly happen to be dyslexic and my phone's correction doesn't pick up on for example words that sound the same, but are spelled and meaning is completely different. (Like hear - here)


	4. A turn for the worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter starts with suicidal ideation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, I think we are at the lowest point now. It can only get better now.
> 
> Or can it?
> 
>  
> 
> Music that inspired this chapter: 
> 
> Chris Notes ft Kyle Spratt - So Close
> 
> B-Mike ft JayteKz - Damaged
> 
> (They are awesome and deep songs, and should both still be on YouTube)

 

 

He had kept forcing himself to pretend that he was better. He couldn't see John's sad smiles of pity anymore whenever he wasn't 'alright'. So he just tried to act like he was getting better. For John's sake.

 

 

But it only killed him further, if the chest pains were anything to go by. And the ever darker growing circles under his reddened eyes. He couldn't cry anymore. His eyes were constantly dry and itchy and it was like his tear ducts were just a well run dry. 

Or how he felt colder with every day, despite wearing his coat and blankets indoors with the heating turned up. 

 

He still shivered when he pulled on his Belstaff over his dressing gown in the middle of the night and left the flat without any socks or shoes. His right hand was wrapping the fingers around and fiddling with the blade inside his pocket. 

 

He didn't want John to find his remains when he had finally given up. He didn't want him to have to clean up the mess he would leave in the flat.

 

But he just couldn't do it anymore. 

 

 

#

 

 

Sherlock had managed to go to the park a few blocks down the street. He was all alone, and he didn't care about anything anymore. He welcomed the shivers that wrecked his body. It was proof that he was still somewhat alive.

 

He sat there on one of the park benches, enjoying his last moments in peace.

 

He just started pulling his hands out of his pockets when he suddenly felt a presence coming up and sitting next to him on the bench, and already knew from the umbrella that he was not pleased to see the owner of it right now.

 

"Fancy meeting you here, little brother." He said in a smug voice.

 

"Why are you here?" Sherlock snapped, not looking at his brother and pulling his legs up against his chest, feeling the cool wood under his naked feet.

 

Mycroft only straightened his posture further. "Well. There are certain cameras in your room for over a month and you haven't taken them down yet. I had all the reasons to assume the worst by watching the footages. Back to old _habits_ , are we?" 

 

Sherlock growled at him. "I'm clean."

 

"On all fronts? Because the blade in your right pocket tells me otherwise. I thought you were over this pitiful game of yours." He said with so much disappointment that his voice may as well be dripping with it.

 

"It's none of your business. _Why_ are you here?"

 

"I am having you admitted. Again. Gregory Lestrade told me you haven't answered his calls, my team told me you were armed and left the flat alone, and I find you in the middle of the night alone in a park, shivering like crazy, thinner than ever, and about to slice your arms open. So, brother mine, tell me: what do you think this looks like?"

 

"It looks like none of your _fucking_ business." Sherlock swore at him.

 

Mycroft frowned at his little brother. After a short silence he looked down at his phone. "John is on his way. Maybe you will tell _him_ what this ridiculous 'business' is all about." 

 

Sherlock only huffed at him. "Why must you always put your nose into everything? Why do you always control me like that?"

 

Mycroft rose an eyebrow at his brother. "Because you need it, and situations like now are just proof of that."

 

They both heard the screeching of wheels braking, and seconds later a car door slamming shut and a desperate call of "Sherlock!!!" 

 

Mycroft felt unusually amused.

 

John came running over to the two brothers, heaving a relieved sigh when he saw Sherlock alive. "Oh god... thank god...." he broke into relieved giggles as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's still shivering form. 

 

"Now that you are here, we can finally get going." Mycroft said and stood up from the bench.

 

"Go where?" John asked him as he pulled away from his friend.

 

"I am having him admitted. He is a danger to himself, John. He is barely alive as it is."

 

John glared at him. "He _is_ alive, Mycroft! His heart is beating! Here, just take his-...his--....  _jesus_......"

He had grabbed Sherlock's wrist out of the pocket — Sherlock had left the blade inside it — and took his pulse. John felt a horrible fear rise in him. "Sherlock... did you run here? Or get up before I got here?"

 

"We have been sitting here for about ten minutes, Doctor Watson." Mycroft supplied. "He always had a fast heart-rate and low blood pressure."

 

"This isn't just fast.. it must be around 160 in the least....." John said, utterly shocked.

 

Sherlock only continued to be wrecked by more shivers. "You wouldn't happen to have a blanket?" He asked John.

 

"If you two are done, could we please get going now? I already have a room ready in a very good facility and-"

 

"I am not going into your psycho prison, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped at him.

 

"Yes, he is **not** going where _you_ want to send him to!" John almost yelled and took a step closer to the elder Holmes. 

 

Mycroft seemed to let up a moment later. "Fine, _Doctor_. Then let me at least bring you both back to Baker Street." 

 

John and Sherlock shared a quick look and nodded. 

 

Mycroft held up a hand when John pulled Sherlock to his feet. "Clear your pockets, little brother." 

 

John frowned at him, then at Sherlock when the younger took something out of his pocket, turned and threw it away — and it landed perfectly in a nearby trash bin.

 

John didn't question it. Mycroft didn't comment. Sherlock glared at his brother and wished he had thrown it at his smug face. Although there wasn't really much of a difference in where he had thrown it.

 

 

The car ride was silent, and no words fell when the two men got out and back home.

 

 

"I still want you to get checked through by a doctor though." John said when they were both safely at home. 

 

Sherlock only groaned but went into his room to look for the hidden cameras.

 

 

 

#

 

 

 

They had gotten a message from Mycroft the next day. 

 

It had an adress, a doctor's name, and a time.

 

John was going to reply that they would **not** go to a doctor that _he_ recommended, when he had received a second text, or rather a screenshot of the reviews. 

 

Apparently it was the best doctor in town. And also a certified therapist, as he saw in the title. Better not tell Sherlock.

 

 

A few hours later they sat in the doctors office. 

 

"Hello Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson. I'm Doctor Well. How can I help you today?" He asked them and they went to the seats around the table. 

 

"Please just call me Sherlock. Mister Holmes is my annoying older brother." Sherlock mumbled.

 

Doctor Well laughed. "Alright. So, Sherlock, what troubles you?" 

 

Sherlock glared. That sounded more like a therapist question. 

 

John decided to jump in. "He needs help. He has severe tachycardia, weight loss, and a bad case of depression." He decided to stay formal, although he downplayed the last part, just because he was afraid that this doc would have him admitted.

 

Sherlock gave him a death glare at the mention anyways.

 

"I would like to measure your vitals, if that's alright." The doc said and pointed to the blood measure monitor on his desk. At Sherlock's nod and him freeing his arm of the jacket, the doc wrapped the gauge around his biceps and pressed a button.

 

"A hundred to 56, and pulse of 105." The doctor mumbled as he typed it into his computer. 

 

Doctor Well thought for a moment. "How much do you weigh?"

 

Both didn't know the answer to that.

 

"Let's go to the exam room, I have a scale and a height measure on the wall." The doctor said and pointed over to a door in his office, that led right to the connected exam room. He freed Sherlock of the measuring cuff and went to the other room with the two of them.

 

 

Sherlock felt horribly self conscious, getting undressed in front of John and a complete stranger. Self conscious of the hundreds of scars that were open for everyone to see. Self conscious of the bones that were sticking out through his skin. 

 

The doctor frowned when he saw the number on the scale and scribbled it down on a pad. 

He then let Sherlock get at least dressed in his long sleeved shirt again, and had him stand at the height measuring scale on the wall.

 

The doc did not look pleased at all with the numbers if his frown was anything to go by. 

 

"I want to listen to your heart and lungs for a moment. You can leave the shirt on." The doctor said and took the stethoscope.

 

He couldn't hear any abnormal sounds in either organ and they went back to his office.

 

After everyone took a seat again, the doc started talking. "Alright, so. Your BMI is at 15.2, low blood pressure and tachycardic. Your earlier notes say somewhat the same thing, so this has been an ongoing problem?"

 

Sherlock gave a small nod. John kept silent and debated on wether to put a hand on his friend in a silent 'I'm here for you'.

 

The doc typed a bit on the keyboard again. "I am having a nurse take your blood and referring you to a cardiologist and a endocrinologist, just to be able to rule out any physical problems. I also feel like it would be a good idea to start you on an SSRI. It's pretty obvious that you are not well, not just physically." He picked up his telephone. "I'll see if the cardiologist will agree with me on a specific one, to help with the tachycardia as well."

 

 

#

 

 

His blood tests came back normal. Even iron and potassium, despite him looking borderline anemic. 

 

The cardiologist had agreed with the general physician and he was now on Zoloft. It was used to lower the pulse, help with depression, anxiety, OCD and even PTSD. 

 

John had told him that he was to call him, wether on his phone or calling for him upstairs, if he felt suicidal (again) or generally like harming himself in any way. (He doesn't bother adding 'if you need me', because Sherlock is still hiding behind his pride to just cry on his shoulder.)

 

Both knew what a risk antidepressants were in the first few weeks. John had asked him if he felt any different after a few days, but Sherlock only shrugged and said "numb". 

 

They had gotten pretty good bad news from the cardiologist. (Yes, you read that right.) And both their moods were a bit down.

 

 

His heart was in perfect shape. Though the cardiologist wasn't happy with the heart rate. 

 

"I think you're not a person who likes sugarcoating. So I'll be frank with you. Your notes say that this tachycardia had been persistent for... over at least 15 years. There is also a definite rise in them since the last assessment. I understand that you are probably sick of bad news but at this rate your heart will give out in... lets say about 20 or 25 years." He had told them with a sad sigh. 

 

Neither had said a thing, although John had looked pained. 

 

"You are both men of facts. And I'm just making sure you know this: Your heart is racing in a constant overdrive, and working twice as hard to keep your body going. That is a huge strain on one fist-sized organ."

 

John had already known all this, of course. But hearing a specialist say it out loud was like a knife twisting in his chest.

 

He would probably out-live his best friend. Who was younger than him.

 

 

# 

 

 

Sherlock had an appointment with the endocrinologist about a week later. 

 

Sherlock told the doc about the tachycardia, the near constant feeling of freezing to death and the apparent inability to gain any weight.

 

It felt super weird, having to answer the "are you on any medication?"-Question.

 

Well, John told the doctor about that part. Sherlock felt ashamed. 

Especially when the doctor had pried further and asked _why_ he was on them.

 

John told him with confidence and Sherlock wanted the ground to swallow him.

 

What was even worse, was that they kept going from one room to another, that was on the other side of the clinic. And each time, the doc had him remove more clothes from his upper body. Always walking past the open waiting area.

So he went fully clothed from the office room, left the general exam room in only his shirt , and went from the ultrasound room completely bare to the blood-taking room. 

 

A nurse came to take his blood for the lab to see if he had any hormone imbalances. She didn't comment about the scars, thank god. 

 

She then told them that they'd get a call about the results in about two days.

 

Sherlock already lost all hope that anything about his problems could be physically.

 

 

#

 

 

John was still downstairs with Mrs Hudson to help her with cleaning (he felt it was only fair since she had helped them as well) when Sherlock's phone rang. The results.

_Well, here goes nothing_. He thought with a sad sigh.

 

He pressed the 'accept call' button and brought the phone to his hear. "Sherlock Holmes."

 

"Hello mister Holmes. You already know why I'm calling so let's skip all that. The results came back perfectly normal. No abnormalities anywhere. And your thyroid looks perfectly healthy and functioning, so you got a healthy and working organ." The doc told him with a hearable grin.

 

Sherlock wasn't pleased in the slightest. It would have been a massive relief if he had just gotten pills for his possible hyperthyroidism. But he had already known that that wasn't the case. His body was fine. It was always fine. It was only his fucked up brain.

 

"Listen, mister Holmes. I know, you wanted an easy answer and cure. But-"

 

"Sorry for wasting your time." He quickly cut him off and cancelled the call, before he would say something he'd regret.

 

He heaved a heavy sign and let himself fall down on the sofa with his eyes shut.

His heart was racing from the anger that flowed through him. An easy answer? Easy cure? Hell, after everything he's been through all his life, he felt he deserved that much. For at least _part_ of his annoying everyday-symptoms to leave him in peace.

 

But apparently he couldn't even be granted that bit.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so, I have decided to give him a limited lifespan, but I want him to have a longer one than my prognosis. I said I want him to get better, and this is as good a 'happy end' that I can even imagine. But you'll get it more with the story progress.


	5. When Serotonin and Dopamine fail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a mention of self harm, no actual description of the act because I don't think that would be good for me AND readers with the same problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had one hell of a shitty day. 
> 
> It might probably be a while until the story can progress further, since I still need to get new meds.
> 
>    
> Guess who lost almost 3 kilos and is now 'severely anorexic' on the BMI scale?  
> Also I'm getting new meds on 21st of May, so let's hope I'll survive until then ;)
> 
> 14th May EDIT: so this is the last chapter I have so far. I have been writing - or trying to, for the past... yeah lost track of time, maybe about a week. I just can't concentrate anymore.  
> Also I kinda sorta wanted to kill myself last night . Let's just say that something happened... don't worry, I'm alright, just a few new cuts v.v

 

The smallest rays of the sun were flickering through the curtains of his window when he opened his eyes. 

 

It only dawned on him after a few minutes of laying there, blinking at his window, that he was awake.

 

His eyes saw the light, his brain registered it. But it all just felt grey. 

 

Sherlock slowly brought a hand out from under the blankets and laid it on his face.

 

Not this again. Not going back down again. Please no.

 

He had actually had a nice day with John. After they had another talk with his new doctor, who told them that since there is nothing physically wrong and there was only one problem, that he should just take it slow until the meds worked. Taking it slow being: no social medias, no TV except for stupid kids channels, no News, and only walks as 'exercise'. Nothing exciting whatsoever. 

 

Sherlock had asked him if he even knew who he was. 

 

Doctor Well had taken it as a joke. "Everyone knows about the great detective." He had said with a grin.

 

So they ended up going outside, walking to Angelo's, and they actually both ate there. John let him deduce a few people and they laughed at an adulterers attempt to snatch up a lady, who's husband then came out from the toilets and told the guy off.

 

 

And now? All the joy was gone. Back was the hollow feeling. The aching tiredness that he could feel in his bones.

 

_I feel old_ , Sherlock thought to himself as he pulled himself up and pick up the package that held his meds.

 

He was a chemist, of course he knew what was wrong with him. A disastrous imbalance between the two neurotransmitters Dopamine and Serotonin. 

 

Serotonin, that caused his heart issues. Serotonin, that left him numb inside. Serotonin, that confused his hypothalamus and left him freezing cold and sometimes sweltering just a few hours later. 

Serotonin, that made him lose his entire need of hunger to the point where his stomach never growled.

Serotonin, that left him paralyzed from the lack of strength.

 

Dopamine, that couldn't get him out of bed.

Dopamine, that caused his addictions.

Dopamine, that wouldn't let him concentrate.

Dopamine, that wouldn't let him enjoy the things he loved.

Dopamine, that made him lose the will to go on.

 

 

Sherlock decided to take a whole pill instead of a half. Because of his BMI, the doc doesn't want to up the dosage anytime soon from a half tablet in the morning, but right now Sherlock didn't care.

 

Anything to not fall down again.

 

 

#

 

 

Four hours later he deeply regretted his decision. 

 

He had been so hyper. Too hyper for John.

 

"What the hell is the matter with you?" He had asked him after Sherlock wouldn't shut up correcting every action on TV and ranting about horrible script writers and even more terrible actors.

 

"Why?! I thought you wanted me to be active?! I am active now! Make a damn decision!!" Sherlock had yelled back at him, jumped from the couch and stomped into his room, slamming the door.

 

John had his head in his hands, sighing in frustration. Yes, he wanted him active. But he wanted him to be _okay_. And he definitely wasn't. 

 

 

#

 

 

Sherlock felt like his heart was trying to slam itself out of his rib cage. 

He was trying to get better! And John only hated him for it.

 

**Always knew he hated your guts.**

 

Sherlock shut his eyes and clenched his hands into fists. 

 

_Shut up._

 

**Yeah. Maybe he finally has enough of you and leaves.**

 

_Shut up!_

 

**You only cause him trouble, no matter what you do.**

**Your mother must be so disappointed.**

 

_Leave me alone.._

 

He was close to sobbing as tears fell down his face in fast rivulets. 

 

**Can't handle the truth, can you?**

**God he is such a _drama queen_.**

**And an _attention seeker_.**

 

Sherlock let out a shaky breath and stopped fighting the demons. He went over to a small, framed picture of his mother on one of the racks in his room.

 

Behind it was one of his sharpest blades, like the one he had when Mycroft screwed up his plans.

 

He kept it there for two reasons: one, no one ever checks there; and two, so he would think twice about taking the blade because he felt like he would betray his mother if he used it.

 

He slowly sat down on his bed and tried to calm himself down. 

 

And just when he thought he would be alright, he heard John walking to the front door and slamming it when he left.

 

 

The silence immediately hit him like a ton of bricks. 

 

John actually left.

 

The voices were right.

 

He was a fucking failure.

 

 

He got back up and reached behind the picture as new tears fell down.

 

 

#

 

 

He had only cut twice, on his arm, not deep or big, just shallow like scratches, before he took a few of small, 5mg valerian pills.

 

He felt drugged when he heard John coming back in, knocking on his door and asking his name.

 

His brain was too muddled to catch on his sorrowful voice, full of concern. 

His door was still locked, so John couldn't get in when he tried the door handle. 

 

The doctor retreated again.

 

 

Sherlock laid there for about half an hour before he decided to come out. He couldn't remember what had happened earlier. Only that his arm was stinging when he moved it. 

 

He unlocked the door, every motion felt weird in his brain and he rubbed at his eyes again. They kind of hurt, and he didn't remember why, either. He just felt tired, drugged out, but calm.

 

So calm that, if the flat suddenly stood in flames, he probably would need a few minutes to even register it. 

 

Calm was equal to slow, in Sherlock's book.

 

 

John looked up at him from the armchair, shocked at the sight of his friend. He looked positively drained, done with this world, and so.... _unlike_ his friend. He really missed the man he had met about half a year ago. 

 

 

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and laid completely curled up on what he calls 'his' side.

 

John looks sadly at him and goes over, sits down on the sofa and starts moving a hand up and down his terrifyingly thin backever so slowly. 

 

 

#

 

 

They somehow both slept on the sofa. 

 

When John woke up it was because the sun was shining directly at his face through the windows that he never had drawn the curtains last night.

 

He found that he was laying halfway over Sherlock's body, and that his friend was already awake. Well, his eyes were open. 

 

John gently pulled himself off of him. 

After sitting in awkward silence for almost a minute, John decided to get up and make tea, when Sherlock suddenly stated "the meds aren't working."

 

John frowned. "It's still too early to tell, Sherlock. You've been on them for three weeks, they-"

 

"No." Sherlock said and, with a lot of effort, pushed himself up so they both sat next to each other on the couch. "They aren't working, John. They make me...... _manic_ like, but they only make me **think** that I have the energy to do a lot, but it just makes me overdo it and crashing down even worse." 

 

John looked down at his hands, thinking. Sherlock may as well have said that they made him 'unstable'.

 

He felt how Sherlock sat there next to him, hunched over, with tired eyes and panda-like rings under them.

 

He glanced over at his friend and noticed the new scars on his arm. His eyes widened as he realized from the estimated age of them, that this must have happened while he was gone.

 

He didn't feel relieved at how shallow and thin they were. Those were lines of pain and desperation and John had caused them.

 

 

Sherlock noticed him staring at his arm, and he suddenly remembered his little 'episode' yesterday. He pulled down the sleeve with his other hand dejectedly and turned away from him, not wanting to see John's reaction.

 

John didn't comment on it. What was there to say, really? He just put a hand on his shoulder for a moment before getting up. "I'm letting Doctor Well know about the meds." 

 

Sherlock only rested his head on the knuckles of his hand against his forehead, his back hunching further.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any possible typos or mistakes. I literally wrote this while on the mentioned valerian pills, although it was to calm down from a meltdown. (Fuck ASD sometimes...)


	6. Possibly psychotic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive, don't worry! But this chapter is a bit shorter than usual, for previously mentioned reasons. Alas, I am 20 now. 
> 
> ...And nothings changed.

 

 

John was trying to distract himself by reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. Opposite of him was Sherlock. Head leaning on one of his hands, elbow resting on the surface. In front of him a small plate with two untouched pieces of toast.

 

Tik. Tik. Tik.

 

John sighed. "Please eat." 

 

Sherlock shook his head, as much as he was able to with it resting on his hand.

 

John sighed in frustration this time. He put the papers down and turned to his friend. "Sherlock if you lose any more weight, you'll get a feeding tube. You know that." He told him sternly.

 

Sherlock glared weakly at him. He put his hands down. "I am not doing this on purpose! I can't swallow it!" He snapped at the doctor.

 

John frowned. "What do you mean you can't swallow it?"

 

Sherlock groaned and rubbed at his eyes with his palms. "I don't know! Ask my stupid brain! It's like it has forgotten how to do anything!"  

 

He then stormed back into his room. John didn't stop him.

 

The doctor was defeated. He just put his head in his hands and sighed in defeat. 

 

 

#

 

 

Sherlock sat on the floor next to his bed, hands in his curls, trying to make sense of everything again. 

 

He couldn't.

 

They were detoxing him from the Zoloft. He just wanted to be alone, was extremely irritable, couldn't concentrate on anything, and his eyes were constantly bothering him. 

 

He was starting to wonder if he needed glasses. His eyes were playing tricks on him. 

 

His phone gave a Ding! and vibrated shortly.... somewhere.

 

He had sort of lost the blasted thing. He just couldn't remember where he had put it.. some days ago. Maybe longer.

 

What day was it, even?

 

How had it still power?

 

His phone got another message. 

The noise was coming from... under his bed? 

 

He turned and leaned down, put an arm under it and felt around.

 

Indeed. His fingers found the flat surface and he pulled it back up.

 

42 new messages, 12 missed calls, and the battery was at its last 6%.

 

He fumbled to put the charger in, then opened the last messages.

 

Lestrade.

 

There was a new murder and 

he was at a loss, been on the case for 2... no, that's a 3. 3 weeks now and still couldn't figure it out.

 

Maybe this was a sign? (PS yes I put the 42 on purpose ;) )

 

He looked at the adress again, because he had already forgotten it again. Then he left his room to get his coat and shoes.

 

"What are you doing?" John suddenly asked him from behind as he got on his first shoe.

 

"Case."

 

John shifted behind him. "Should you be doing that right now? You're still detoxing and could still get Serotonin Syndrome."

 

Sherlock waved him off. "I can't just go on walks for the rest of my life." He turned around to John. "This is what I'm here for, isn't it? Solving crimes?" 

 

John didn't comment. 

 

 

#

 

 

"This is how we found her. Been laying there for about two days." Sherlock muted Lestrade from his brain as he entered the room.

 

-

 

Greg caught John's arm as he was about to pass him. "I know it's not really my place, but what was he sick with? No offense but... he looks horrible, mate."

 

After a while of Sherlock leaving Lestrades calls and texts go unanswered, John had just told him in a call one time, that Sherlock was sick and wouldn't be taking cases for a while.

 

John squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. He nervously bit his lip before deciding "I think it's really not my place to tell you... he will tell you if and when he wants you to know." 

 

Greg nodded. "Just.. please tell me this: it's not drugs again, is it? Cause.. you know the rule. If he's on drugs I cannot have him here."

 

John actually smiled at him, although sadly. "No, it's not drugs." And on the inside he felt that that would have been so much easier than dealing with what they have to suffer through.

 

-

 

Meanwhile Sherlock was looking around, finding only withering flowers in a probably dry vase and.... he got nothing. The room was full of furniture, but nothing told him anything. 

 

He was startled back to reality by John kneeling next to the dead woman. "Well she seemed wealthy. Somewhere in her thirties-"

 

"Forties." Sherlock interrupted. There was no way she could possibly be that young.

 

John glared at him confused. "That's what I said."

 

Sherlock licked his lips. "No. No you.. you said thirties, I'm sure of it." He looked away.

 

John straightened up in his crouched down position. "Aaaalright then? So what have you got?"

 

What he got? Oh.

 

His eyes flicked about the room again. But no words came to him. It was all just so blurred words that he couldn't possibly make anything out of them, or they ended up being '???'.

 

He rubbed at his eyes with his palms again. 

 

Still nothing.

 

He rubbed at them more fiercely.

 

"Hey! Sherlock, heeey. Come on." John was suddenly right next to him, startling Sherlock when he held onto his arms and tried to turn him out of the room.

 

When they got out, Lestrade was thankfully busy talking to someone on the phone a few meters away.

 

Sherlock stared down at his hands in confusion. "What is wrong with me?" He whispered mostly to himself, but judging by the look John gave him, the doctor had heard him. 

 

"It's okay. Let's just get you home." John said gently and put a hand on Sherlock's back, mentally cringing when he felt his vertebrae through the thick coat.

 

"Holy shit." They both flinched when they heard, and saw, Sally Donovan approaching them. But instead of her usual mocking, she actually looked concerned. "Jesus.. what happened to you, freak? You look horrible! Uh.. no offense." 

 

Sherlock only glared at her. 

 

John decided that Sherlock wouldn't speak up. "Leave us alone, please." 

 

She didn't budge. Only shifted a bit. "Do you need help? Can I get you anything?"

 

She actually sounded sincere. At least to John.

 

In Sherlock's mind it was a different story. To him it sounded like she pitied him. And if he hates one thing, it's being pitied. 

 

But to his dismay, he couldn't tell anything off of her, either. He came up blank again.

 

So he'd just pull the sociopath card. "Why don't you just go and actually do your job? I am always asked here just because you lot can't even do the thing you're being paid for!" He snapped at her, even though in the back of his mind he knew that  he had actually been the one to ask to help on cases, just to stop being bored.

 

And now he couldn't even do that anymore, it seemed.

 

 

Sally glared at him now. "Fine. At least I have a job and get paid for what I do, unlike  some people. Make yourself useful for once,  _Freak_. " She snapped back at him and walked over to Lestrade.

 

John noticed the twitch on his friend's face. "She didn't mean-"

 

"Of course she meant it! Whatever, it doesn't matter." Sherlock dismissed it. "Let's just go home. This was a waste of time."

 

John watched him go and try to hail down a cab, as he wondered if he meant 'waste of time' for himself, or the Yard.

 

 

#

 

 

_ Make yourself  **useful** . _

_ Unlike  **some** people. _

_ At least I have a  **job** and get  **paid** for  **what I do** . _

 

 

What did it matter what others thought of him? Everything.

 

Those exact words.. how many times had he heard them now? From his family? 

 

Why  couldn't he just be like everybody else and just do what they all did? Find a job, and work until retirement.

 

He heaved a sigh. It was just impossible.

 

This wasn't worthy of the name "mood disorder". It wasn't just "mood". It was pain. It was hopelessness. It was wishing for death. It was darkness. It was _hell_.

 

It was _cancer_. A mental cancer. And he was going through the second round of treatment, as the cancer slowly kills him. 

 

How was he ever going to make it out of this  _alive_?

 

What even was truly living anymore?

 

Sherlock didn't know. Didn't remember. 

 

And so he stared out at the stars in the sky, hearing John's snores through the ceiling of his room. 

 

Hoping against hope for a change that would never happen.

 

 

 


	7. Breaking point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is getting to his own breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just on a proud note: after three and a half years of massively struggling with anorexia, I can confidently say that I am as recovered as someone with an eating disorder can be. I know that it will always linger in the back of my mind, but other than my underweight body shape (from depression, mind) I am alright and eating what and when I want, without guilt or regrets. 
> 
>  
> 
> I thought I'd bring it up in the story, but it won't become an important part of it.
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING for possibly triggering talk about anorexia and new self harm in this chapter

 

John didn't expect to come home to the Holmes Brothers arguing. He had gone out to get the essentials like toiletries and fresh vegetables, and now he realized that he was intruding on something personal.

 

He put down the shopping bags as silently as possible, and against his better judgement, listened in behind the flat-door.

 

 

"-and now I hear that you can't even do the job that _you_ invented! Why is it so hard to accept that you _need_ ** _help?!?!_** Just _look_ at yourself! Going back to that, are we?"

 

"Don't you **dare** bring that up! I am _over it!"_ Sherlock snapped back.

 

"That's not what the doctors said how it works, and you know it. For gods sake you look even _worse_ than then!"

 

John frowned. Was Mycroft still obsessed with his idea that his brother was back on drugs?

 

"We are not talking about this." Sherlock said, somewhat losing his confidence.

 

"Oh yes, we are. Even a blind person could see that you are back at it. Your... _inability_   to eat like a _normal_ person."

 

John felt his heart stop a beat.

 

"You won't even say the name." Sherlock said half-heartedly.

 

"You never did." Mycroft argued.

 

"Fine. But I'm **not** anorexic. And haven't been in years."

 

"Are you sure about that? Because you positively look anorexic to me. Denial is a symptom, remember?" John could hear the elder's sneer.

 

" **I'm not anorexic for gods sake!** "

 

This was bad. Sherlock was supposed to be surrounded by as little stress as possible, and they had already broken that rule yesterday. _Why_ did his brother have to come and ruin everything further?

"Then **start eating!!!** "

 

And now the elder was yelling at him.

 

It was only one Sherlock Holmes who could break his brothers cool demeanor.

 

John had heard enough, and more than he should. He opened the door.

"What in gods name are you doing here, Mycroft?!" He snapped at the older brother, never afraid of him.

 

"Ah John, how nice of you to finally come in." Mycroft said as if nothing happened beforehand.

 

John looked at Sherlock, who had his head down in apparent shame. He turned back to Mycroft and pointed at the door.

"Leave. **Now**. You have done enough damage."

 

Mycroft straightened his coat, grabbed the umbrella from next to John's armchair, which he had been standing next to, gave John a sharp nod and left the flat.

 

John then looked worriedly at his friend. "Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock shook his head for a moment. "We are not talking about this."

 

John nodded. His friend wouldn't tell him anything if he didn't want to, no matter how much he pried and begged.

"I'm gonna make us some lunch." He said and turned to the kitchen, but halted when Sherlock said "not hungry."

 

He turned half back around and gave Sherlock a pointed look. "You skipped breakfast. You are **not** skipping lung."

Sherlock glared at him, stormed into his room and locked the door.

 

"Sherlock!" John yelled, but knew it was in vain.

 

Everything was always in vain with him, lately. And John didn't know why he even bothered anymore.

 

If he wanted and had been starving himself deliberately, then John couldn't really stop him.

 

 

#

 

 

Sherlock sat on his bed, thinking.

 

He wasn't dealing with anorexia. He had meant what he said. He hadn't even _thought_ about it in a long time.

 

And now Mycroft had planted the seed to make John believe that he was purposely starving himself.

Which he _wasn't._

 

He just constantly felt sick to his stomach, and every time he ate something he felt bloated instantly, and couldn't eat much. Even four hours after he ate anything he still felt like it was coming back up if he just so much as moved.

 

Temporary, serotonin induced gastroparesis, his mind supplied. His stomach wasn't digesting, and he wasn't fond of eating at all anymore.

 

He had actually woken up this morning because his body was gagging, and in his dream he was throwing up into a tissue, and strangely enough it was barely digested from what he had seen, as if his mind knew what was going on.

 

His body was slowly shutting down. First his brain, now his stomach. He was actually wondering what his heart was doing.

 

His damn heart. The thing that was going to give out on him.

 

He sighed. He was going to die soon, anyways. He couldn't do his job, he worried everyone, and all he did was cause trouble.

 

So what was the point anymore?

 

Why was he still here?

 

He looked down at his hands, opened slid down the wrist watch, staring and tracing _the scar._

If he had gone deeper, he would have died fifteen years ago. The doctors told him he was very lucky, as he had nicked the artery.

 

He didn't feel so lucky. And he felt bad for wasting the doctors time.

 

His scars itched, and he scratched until he saw tiny little red drops.

 

**You should have died.**

**You only make everyone miserable.**

**Look at poor John. Look at what you did to him!**

Sherlock glared and stopped his movements.

 

**You can't do anything right!**

**You are too lazy to even do your work!**

**Get off your lazy ass! You are perfectly capable of going to work! You aren't 'ill'! You are just using at as excuse to lay on your ass all day!!!**

 

Sherlock felt his damaged soul breaking. Shattering.

 

He heard Mycrofts words echoing inside his mind again.

 

 _You only lay around, lock yourself in your room, and now_ _I hear that you can't even do the job that **you** invented!_

 

_Just **look** at yourself! _

 

 

There was suddenly a sharp knock on the door. "Sherlock I'm leaving your plate here behind your door. If you want to prove that you aren't anorexic then eat it like a _sane person!"_

He then heard him stomp away.

 

And he felt his soul shattering further.

 

John thought he was insane. Crazy. A _Freak_.

_He felt the urge rising._

_The call for his blade._

_The desperate need to silence everything._

_Stop time._

_#_

John collected the untouched plate with a sad sigh. It was past dinner time and Sherlock hadn't made a sound the whole time.

 

John felt guilty. Enough to feel nauseous.

 

He hadn't meant it. He was just overwhelmed with this new revelation. He hadn't known how to help his friend with his depression. How was he supposed to help him with an eating disorder?

 

He put the still full, and now cold plate on the kitchenette. He didn't have the energy to clear it and put it in the dishwasher.

 

He just wanted things to to back to normal. To solve cases, chase suspects, and blog about it.

 

John went back over to Sherlock's room and knocked softly on the door. "Sherlock? Are you awake?" He asked hesitantly.

 

"..yes."

 

"Can I come in?" He asked, hopeful.

 

There was silence at first.

 

Then he heard the key turn and unlock the door.

 

John opened it and found his friend on his bed, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them.

 

He closed the door behind himself and sat down next to him.

"I'm sorry. This... all of this is just... hard for me to deal with."

 

Sherlock glared at him.

 

"I'm not saying that you don't. This must be tons harder on you, I know. I just.. don't know how to help you. I'm a doctor. I can treat the flu, and even cases of pneumonia. But this? No amount of antibiotics will help you."

 

Sherlock gave a soft snort behind him and John smiled.

 

"See what I mean? It's just.. out of my territory."

 

They were silent after that for a while.

 

"Don't listen to Mycroft. I'm really not doing any of this on purpose." Sherlock said, rather slowly.

 

"I know you don't. It's the illness." John said.

 

Sherlock shook his head. "I said what I meant."

 _Meant what I said_ , John mentally corrected.

"I'm not anorexic. I was never at a 'normal' weight, and I am not purposely trying to starve myself because of control or wishing for a 'certain body shape'. I would gladly be rid of this, do you know how painful it is to sit and walk when you are only skin and bones."

 

John swallowed at the thought. He felt out of place with how open he was being. "You promise?"

 

"Promise."

 

John smiled at him. Sherlock didn't smile back.

 

"So... this is just your depression?"

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the word. "You're making it sound like it's a simple cold or a bee sting."

 

John opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, unable to find words. "Well we can just call it CMD if you prefer." He said with his hands in the air. Still better than calling it a mental cancer, which had been his first idea. (They had both come to the same conclusion, just at different times)

 

"Acronyms. I like it. But yes, you could say that it's from the 'CMD'. My theory is a temporary paralysis of the stomach muscles, caused by a sudden drop of Serotonin." Sherlock explained, matter-of-fact-ly.

 

John cringed at the mental image he got from that.

 

"Well how about some tea? Are liquids as bad?" He asked.

 

Sherlock shrugged.

 

"I'll be right back." John said and put a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder, who still hadn't moved from his position.

 

Once John had left, Sherlock pulled back his right sleeve. The two thin, shallow cuts had already scarred over and were itching, and right after them on the inside of his underarm were five new, fairly deep ones, and he really should go wash them. His arm was smeared with dried blood, since he never left his room all afternoon.

 

He quickly got up and the few steps to the bathroom, closing but not locking the door. He didn't really care if John saw them now. He would see the scars some day anyways.

 

What he hadn't anticipated was that the deepest - the first one - reopened under the lukewarm water.

 

He grabbed a piece from the toilet paper, wet it under the faucet and carefully pressed it on them. (In case someone ever needs this trick, that gets them to stop bleeding. I hope someone only has to use it for accidental wounds though Xx)

 

His brain told him that John would be back in only a few seconds now, and he decided to just flush the bloody paper down the toilet, pulled the sleeve back over his arm and went back to his room.

 

John was already in the small hallway and looked at him weirdly. "You okay?"

 

Sherlock nodded mutely, not meeting his eye.

 

John came closer to him. "You're looking a bit peaky. Maybe try to eat something later, hm? Just as much as you feel like you can handle."

 

Sherlock only nodded again, blinking rapidly, and John got the serious impression that something wasn't right.

 

Two steps away from his bed, Sherlock fainted out of the blue.

 

John just out the tea on the floor and rushed over to him. He kneeled before him and gently tapped his cheek a bit. "Sherlock. Hey, come on.."

 

It wasn't long. Maybe half a minute before his eyes fluttered open again.

 

John kept a hand on his shoulder, unconsciously holding him down in case he tried to get up so soon.

 

"Sherlock. Can you hear me?" He asked him in his 'doctor voice'.

 

Sherlock blinked and looked up at him, slightly holding his head up.

 

"Stay down for a second, I'm here, okay?" John then went to grab the tea, put it on the night stand and knelt back down next to his friend.

 

He watched his friend breathing for what felt like hours, before Sherlock suddenly tried to push himself up, and John helped him into a sitting position.

 

He then grabbed the tea, not too hot by now, and held it out to Sherlock. "Here, drink a bit. It'll help."

 

As Sherlock held the cup up to his lips and carefully sipped at it, John noticed a few dark streaks on his right sleeve, and his heart clenched. He knew what this meant.

 

Sherlock had harmed himself. Again.

 

Because of _him_. **_Again_**.

****

#

 

He didn't bring it up.

 

John just sat in the living room, his laptop on his lap, a blank page of google staring him in the face. But he was looking above the screen, at nothing.

 

No one ever said it would be this hard.

 

And John was wondering if maybe Mycroft was right.

 

Maybe he couldn't help him.

 

Maybe he needed to be locked up in a psychiatric hospital.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also thank you ALL for all your love and support <3 you have no idea how much it means to me, and having so many people relate and be open about their own struggles Xx Love you all!! *group hug*


	8. Intrusive thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick chapter that you can skip if disturbing mental images are not your thing.
> 
> Google the term of the title if you want to know more, or have experienced something like it is explained here - it is a real thing and it has a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for massive self hatred, descriptions of a severely underweight body, and imagined but if real they would be life threatening wounds, and blood.

 

Sherlock didn't know what time it was when he woke up at night because he was freezing. His thin frame was shivering like mad, goosebumps all over his body. 

 

Night sweats. 

 

How much he hated those.

 

Judging by the darkness outside that he could see from behind his window, it was probably around 2 am. 

 

Afraid that he might wake up John and just cause him more problems and worry, he just hugged his blankets tighter around himself and tried to fall back asleep.

 

#

 

He woke up at around six, still long before John would get up at 7, and decided that he was sick of the cold that had a vice grip on his entire skin.

 

He grabbed fresh clothes and went into the bathroom for a quick shower. 

 

He only rinsed his hair for a bit and quickly washed his body, and got back out after a mere 3 and a half minutes. 

 

Because the whole time that he was naked, his mind supplied him with mental images of how he would look; bleeding out from numerous deep cuts down his arms, legs, stomach, and even a good view of a quick slice through his throat.

 

He shook his head and blinked rapidly. It felt so wrong, watching that much blood just flowing like rivers, yet he was still alive and unharmed.

 

What in the world was this, even? He had had those kind of 'visions' before, and they had involuntarily ended up with him-

 

No. He wouldn't go there again. He had promised.

 

 

He looked at the reflection in the mirror as he brought down the towel from ruffling his dark curls. 

 

He was literally skin and bones, his skin was so pale that the white wall looked yellow in comparison, and with the dark circles under his eyes he may as well be a panda bear.

 

He watched the ribs moving with each breath he took. If he wanted to, he could count how many he could see without touching any of them. 

 

The collarbones stood out like metal pieces that were out of place. 

 

Even with just his position of his hands leaning down on the faucet rim, he could see the workings of his shoulders.

 

He felt disgusted. By himself. By his own body.

 

Disgusted by the features of his face, his chest, his throat-

 

He watched the mental razor blade running, in slow motion this time, through the skin of his throat. Even the blood flowed in slow motion.

 

"What in the..." he muttered to himself and splashed cold water into his face.

 

"Sherlock?" John? What was he doing awake already?

 

"Yeah?" He asked hesitantly, looking back at the mirror and feeling at his undamaged throat.

 

"Everything alright?" The doctor asked after a moment of silence.

 

"Uh.. yeah. Everything's... fine." Sherlock answered him and blinked again. Was he going insane?

 

"I'm gonna put the kettle on, uh.. do you want a cuppa?" 

 

It took a bit before his brain realized that John was expecting a 'yes' or 'no' answer from him, and this seemingly tiny decision was wrecking him mentally.

 

Because if he said 'yes', John would have more work to do, just because of him. 

 

But if he said 'no', then John would worry again, and that was all the poor man had been doing already. 

 

He nervously started scratching at his newest soon-to-be scars from yesterday.

 

"Sherlock?" John asked, his worry much more apparent this time.

 

"Uh.. um, uh.. just.. you...uhm.... goddammit-" 

 

"....."

 

Sherlock put his hands over his face and tried to steady his breaths, while John was starting to think that something had happened on the other side of the door.

 

"Sherlock? I'll just make you one as well, and you can decide wether you want it or not, okay? It's fine. It's all fine." John told him, and Sherlock just felt himself shattering further. 

 

He heard John walk away, and all he wanted to do was scream at everything to just 'STOP' and slide down a cold, tiled wall and just sink go the floor like the broken puppet that he felt like he was, and stop living for a moment.

 

Just for a moment. He needed everything to stop moving. Because he was standing still, and going backwards; sinking in a bottomless ocean, watching everyone around him keep walking and  _breathing_   and  **_living_ ** -

 

 

#

 

 

"When do I get the new meds? I've been withdrawing for over a week!" Sherlock complained to John. He had gotten dressed and was sitting with him in the living room now, scratching at his arm every now and then absentmindedly.

 

"It's been six days." John corrected.

 

Sherlock sighed in frustration and let himself collapse back to the pillows. 

 

"Right. I'm gonna give Doctor Well a call. See what he thinks and if he has decided on one by now." John said, giving in.

 

Sherlock only 'hmpf'ed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A problem that you mostly never see even mentioned, is the inability to make even a simple decision for yourself. I will try to have it appear more often, since it happens a lot of times every single day.
> 
> Also you will know why I haven't updated until now, when you read the next chapter. The new meds are real hardcore stuff, let me tell you.


	9. Mirtazapine

 

"I'm hesitant with giving you these. We have to be  very careful with them, because they are what you could call 'the hard stuff', and with your low weight we have to start with the smallest dosage of half a pill. They are 15mg as a whole, so we'll start with 7,5. They could make you a bit tired over the day, and should raise your appetite, so we'll test it out for three weeks. Call me if anything happens." 

 

That's what the doctor had explained to them, and Sherlock now stared at the blue package in his hands, waiting for the day to end so he could take the first dose.

 

In the meantime he may as well read the side effects, use, and all that.

 

They were used for specifically major depressive disorder, they can cause drowsiness and aggression, and you shouldn't be working on machines or driving a car for at least the first weeks of taking it.

 

Well they already only took cabs so he wasn't worried.

 

Raise in appetite and resulting weight gain. Well, that would be nice.

 

Drowsiness and dizziness. 

Feeling sedated. 

Dry mouth.

Trouble sleeping.

Vivid dreams and nightmares.

 

 

Sherlock folded the insert back up. He would only become anxious and try to notice every single side effect and probably even cause them. It had happened before.

 

John suddenly appeared behind him with a cup of tea. He decided to just wait.

 

Evening couldn't come soon enough.

 

 

#

 

 

It was ridiculous how much he was riled up about taking a pill. Half a pill.

 

How disappointing.

 

Even more disappointing was how tiny this pill even was, and they still had to cut it in half. Cut, because it was pretty thick for the size, and the little lining where you should break it was so shallow that it was impossible to break it with fingers.

 

John of course had a tablet parter, and Sherlock's eyes unconsciously stared at the sharp blade in the top part, and only snapped back to reality when he heard the cracking of the pill breaking in half. 

 

"Here." John said, handing him one tiny half, and putting the other back into the blister pack and draped the ripped-in aluminum back over it.

 

He didn't comment on how greedily his flatmate took it with water.

 

 

#

 

 

He had slept like a rock. He had no idea what time or day it was. He only knew that his eyes had closed before he even realized that he had opened them, and he was blissfully floating in how foggy his brain felt, and how his entire body felt like he had been in a coma for years. All of his muscles felt so weak. He sluggishly put a hand to his face, that ended somewhere next to his head and the elbow fell down to his forehead.

 

He wasn't really sure where up and down was right now, but he felt too drained and drugged out of his mind to care.

 

#

 

John didn't think he would come out all day. Every time he checked on him he found the detective asleep. 

 

He was surprised when Sherlock joined him in the living room when John zapped through the channels in the late afternoon. 

 

"How're you feeling?" John asked him. Sure, the doc had said he may be tired, but John had only thought it meant sleeping in late and needing one more coffee than normal to wake up. Not sleep all day.

 

"Pretty much like coming out of anesthesia... and on a morphine drip, kinda..." he sluggishly told him.

 

He was asleep on the sofa ten minutes later.

 

John shut the TV off and draped a blanket over him.

 

 

#

 

 

He was awake again when John made dinner, saying he was actually starving, and that he was weirded out because he hadn't felt hungry is so long that he didn't know what this was at first.

 

John had only chuckled and prepared a slightly bigger portion than his own on a second plate for his friend.

 

Although he couldn't eat much from the used-to-semi-restriction smaller stomach, it made sure he was already hungry again half an hour later.

 

Two hours of this later, he was too tired to eat, took his half of a pill and decided that he was done with this day.

 

 

 


	10. The game is on - Or not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my absence. I tried to save a bird who had crashed against our house wall, who ate and drank and jumped around all day and then in the evening laid on his back and died in my hands. And the day after, my dog friend died after 17 long years. I was just completely devastated for a while and didn’t feel like writing at all.  
> The crime in this chapter is something that actually happened and was on the news. The guy showed no remorse and lied throughout the entire trial, and will never get out of jail for the rest of his life. Name is changed for legal reasons.

 

 

The tiredness and drowsiness slowly lessened within a week, and both were getting used to Sherlock’s semi-binges over the day.

Only then did John deem it safe enough to get the shopping, and felt slapped in the face when he opened the door, and came face to face with no other than Mycroft Holmes.

 

“What the _HELL_ are you doing here?!?!” He yelled and let the shopping bags drop dramatically on the landing.

 

“John. Just the man I was hoping to talk with.” The elder Holmes did not look like this would be funny business, and it sobered John up a bit, although he stayed serious.

 

John gave him a short nod, pushed the bags inside with his foot and closed the door behind him. “So what’s up?”

 

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and seemed to be heavily interested in seeing the tip twirl on the ground. “It has come to my attention that my brother is on highly addictive.. medication.”

 

John felt the desire to sigh but only rolled his eyes. “They are prescription drugs and I give it to him every day.”

 

“And what if you happen to be away for a few days? Can we trust him enough not to overdose the second he can get his hands on them?”

 

The apparent doubt in his own brother offended the army doctor. “For your information: your brother _wants_ to get better, and he as access to them 24/7!”

 

Mycroft seemed to be taken aback, but maybe John just imagined it. “And you deem that safe?”

 

“Yes! He doesn’t need to be monitored and... _controlled_ every moment of his life!” John yelled at him now.

 

“That is where you are mistaken, Doctor Watson. And you’d be wise to rethink this.”

 

“No. You rethink it. On your way out. Now.” John told him with a straight face and pointed to the door, his eyes never leaving the Holmes’s face.

 

Mycroft straightened himself and nodded. “Very well.” He said, then on his way out “good day, John.”

 

John didn’t acknowledge him, too many questions running through his head, most importantly: what had Mycroft said to Sherlock, and where was he even?

 

“Sherlock!” He called in the direction of his flatmate’s bedroom, where he presumed he was.

 

He got no answer. He called again, louder.

 

There was no answer, again. He was starting to panic when his phone started ringing inside his coat pocket. He hastily fumbled it out, thinking this was Sherlock calling him, telling him he is standing on Tower Bridge and about to jump, when he saw that the caller was Lestrade.

 

He sighed, hopefully Greg had some info. “Watson.”

 

“John where are you? I think I got someone here who’s gone missing. I texted him about a case and now he won’t leave the team alone, because apparently Anderson managed to break the camera and now they have to take new pictures of the crime scene—“

“Whoa whoa whoa, slow down. Where is he... where are you?”

 

“St Barts.”

“......”

“No, not like that. He’s fine.. I think?” John heard the inquiry in his voice and felt guilt swell up inside him. In all the months, they never told Greg what was up.

 

“Uh.. yeah.. he is.. fine. Absolutely fine. Be there in ten.”

 

 

#

 

 

“Sherlock! I told you to slow down! Come on sit down- yes sit down, no arguments” was the first thing John heard when he got to where someone on the team told him to go, at the entrance of the hospital. “I don’t care what you or John said! You are _not_ ‘fine’, mate.”

 

John went left into a former patient room, where he found Lestrade holding Sherlock firmly on one of the visitor chairs. Anderson won’t be pleased if this is part of the ‘crime scene’, John mused. “What’s going on?”

 

Greg turned his head around to John, his face going from angry to relieved. “Glad you’re here mate, this git is about to faint and wouldn’t sit down for a bloody minute.”

 

“Hold on, faint?” John asked and hurried over to Sherlock’s by now hunched over form, grabbing his hand to check the pulse and already noticing the pale skin in his face. “When’s the last time you ate?” He finally asked.

 

“Earlier. With you.” Sherlock said with, had he more strength, presumably venom, because _John had been there with him, and he didn’t have alzheimers._

John frowned. “That was..” he checked his wrist watch, “just two hours ago.”

 

Sherlock didn’t seem fazed by this info. “It’s the meds.. low blood sugar, that’s all.”

 

John took it as a reliable enough reason and nodded. He turned to the people around him. “Anyone got a chocolate bar or even just juice will do.”

 

Lestrade frowned for some reason before picking through his pockets, Donovan actually looked through her bag, and Anderson pretended not to hear anything.

 

Greg found a few bon bons, and Donovan held out a grain bar.

 

 

  * \- -



 

Sherlock hadn’t thought twice when he got the text from Lestrade. He didn’t feel so much like he was going backwards while the entire world kept going forwards, or that getting up from bed was too much to handle. He felt sort of _alive_ again, and he was ready to do the thing he’s good at: solving crimes.

 

He hadn’t thought to leave John a note or message, he just grabbed his coat and left in a hurry.

 

When he was at the hospital and checked the medical supply room, he suddenly realized that his hands were shaking, and that he felt like when he purposely starved himself for two days.

He had gotten used to this. This hollow feeling, like a battery run out, and the next thing he knew was Lestrade saying some words he didn’t hear, and the bones in his behind being slammed on a plastic chair.

 

He was momentarily aware of his surroundings and, oh, John was there too. Where had he come from all of a sudden?

 

John asked him a question -  a _stupid_ question. Gosh, why couldn’t people just _think_ for once in their lives?!

 

He answers with, what he hopes is, enough venom to get the message across that he is annoyed.

 

God he was so irritable lately.

 

 _Side effect of the meds._ His mind palace supplied.

 

Sherlock swallowed, and suddenly realized that he was eating something. Grains.. good God, Donovan had given him one of her new “diet” bars.

 

“Sherlock, hey, can you hear me now?”

 

That voice.... John’s voice. He looked up.

 

“There you are. You were a bit vacant there. Stay out of your mind palace while we are in public, please?”

 

Sherlock only nodded, and saw that he had eaten the entire bar. John was pushing the wrapping in his hands into a ball to throw away later.

 

“Now that mister know-it-all is all fine and dandy, can I _please_ get back to work now?!” Anderson exclaimed to their right.

 

“Just let him get all he need-” Lestrade tried to argue but Sherlock held up a hand. “I got everything, arrest Davis Harrison, he works here as a nurse and is responsible for 85 deaths in the last two years.”

 

“What! How-?”

 

“He took a specific heart medication and injected heart patients with it. Their supply had gone down without anyone noticing because it is used to slow the heart down.” Sherlock explained, getting up from the chair, pulling the forensics gloves off, and his gloves back on.

 

“Sherlock, _why_ did he do this?” Greg pressed.

 

“Narcissism and an intense hero complex, I’m afraid. He injected them to appear like a hero when he was doing the CPR in a false act to save their lives.” And with that he strode out.

 

 

#

 

 

John jogged after him. “Should we get some take away on our way home? Do you need something right now?” The doctor asked when he finally caught up with him.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll be fine until we get home.”

 

They walked in silence for a moment. “Oh and don’t ask for chocolate - I’m allergic.”

 

John stared at him as they walked. “Seriously? I mean - for real?”

 

“Yu **p**.”

 

 

Silence.

 

 

Then John burst out laughing.

 

Sherlock frowned at him. “What are you laughing about?”

John wiped tears from his eyes, still giggling. “Sorry, it’s just. With everything that happened, and chocolate being known for creating dopamine-“

 

“Which is false but everyone believes it.”

 

“It’s just so.. ironic.”

 

“... Yes I believe you are right.” Sherlock said, managing a smile in what felt like years.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end, guys. There is much more to come before this story is over.  
> Also this is not a joke, I really am allergic to chocolate xD


	11. Two Steps From Hell

 

 

He needed to cut.

 

The urges were getting intense.

 

He wanted so bad for the anxiety in his blood to flow out of his body again.

 

 

But he wanted to stop it. He'd come this far. He was over a month clean. 

 

Five weeks. He's been clean for five weeks. 

 

A year seemed to be an impossibly long time now. 

 

His brother had nagged at him for being on this specific medication and threatened with putting him into his 'special' facility, again. 

 

And what was even worse: it was going down again.

 

He could feel it. 

 

He never saw it coming. But he could feel it.

 

Like watching a graph going down from an almost steady squiggly line, into a parabola in minus direction.*

 

A parabola always meant that it would go up again in the same way.

In all honesty he was afraid that it wouldn't go back up again. 

It just wasn't predictable for him. He could deduce a firemen by his shoe size, but he had no calculation, no way to predict if he would get 'better' again, or if he'll now be forever trapped in a body that fought to live, with a mind that tries to die. 

 

_"You'll have about 20 to 25 years left before your heart will give out."_

 

The doctor's words replayed in his mind. 

 

He would die as it is, why bother trying to stay clean?

 

Because it  **doesn't help** , never did, and I am  **sick** of betraying John like this.

 

He didn't really know why he felt like he betrayed John if he harmed himself; it wasn't like he ever promised him he'd stop. In fact, John was so understanding about it that he should feel okay with doing it.

 

No. No no and no. He wouldn't. He wanted to be clean. He had harmed himself for no good reason for decades, he didn't need more scars. He didn't have to make himself more miserable. He already had to fight this illness, no point in making it any harder than it already was.

 

If only the craving would stop. He felt so jittery, tense to the core and just filled with so much anxiety and self hatred. 

This was why he always relapsed; because this was so hard to withstand when your mind was already messed up.

 

And for gods sake - if John asked him one more fucking time what he felt like eating, he was going to throw the plate against a wall.

 

"I'm not hungry! How many times do I have to say it?! Why won't it just go into your tiny brain?!" He had snapped in a moment of the uncontrollable rage, and hit the table with a fist, not caring if he hurt himself. 

 

John hadn't commented further. In fact, when he got a text message from Sarah, asking him if he could help out at the clinic, he hadn't questioned it and just left the flat. All thoughts that he hadn't worked for her in over a year and that she had blocked him after the disastrous date, were nonexistent in his momentary need to get away. 

 

 

Sherlock let himself drop on his kitchen chair and put his face into his hands, heaving a sigh. 

 

**He hates you.**

**He absolutely hates you.**

**Oh lord have mercy, don't let him ever come back to this lunatic.**

 

_Don't listen to them. Don't listen to them. Don't listen to them._

 

**Poor John.**

**He is such a freak! He's INSANE!**

 

_Fuck off!_

 

#

 

John stepped out of the flat and was about to hail a cab when he felt a sudden bash against his head. 

 

# (Music: [Two Steps From Hell - Victory](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=hKRUPYrAQoE)) 

 

Sherlock looked up in surprise when his laptop suddenly started... ringing? 

 

He went over to it and saw that a weird, small, black window had opened itself; a hacker? 

 

Then on the open tab behind - his website - had received a new comment, to which the page scrolled down itself. 

It first showed the strange hate comments he had recently gotten by an anonymous person. 

 

Anonymous: 

I will find you.

 

Anonymous: 

I will kill you.

 

And the newest: 

Anonymous:

Click on the black window.

 

Not knowing what to do, he debated turning the laptop off and unplugging the wifi router.

 

Another new comment. 

 

Anonymous: 

Do it. Or else.

 

And suddenly the black window showed an image of a complete stranger holding a knife to a tied up John's throat. He frowned at the duct tape covering John's mouth.

 

Panic rose within him and he hastily clicked on the window.

 

He just gave the hacker complete access to his computer, his brain scolded. He didn't care.

 

The image became a video - a live stream.

 

"Hellloooo Sherlock. How nice of you to finally join us. Johnny here was getting a bit bored." The stranger said, and Sherlock saw John still tied up on the chair, but otherwise unharmed. 

 

"Who are you." Sherlock said, trying to appear as collected as possible.

 

"Hmmm I  _could_ tell you, but that would just ruin the fun, wouldn't it? Alas, we are here to play a little game. It's You ..... or John." He said, turning briefly to John, then back to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock didn't say anything. His brain was too busy trying to make sense of this.

 

"I'm giving you the choice, Sherlock. You die and John lives, or John dies and you live." The man kept talking.

 

"And how would you kill me?" Sherlock asked with a mocking tone.

 

The guy laughed. "Oh, I won't be the one to kill you. You are."

 

Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat.

 

"I know that you are taking these fancy little pills. What do you say? Take five of your sweet, itty bitty pills, and John is free." 

 

In the background, John mm-ed a "Sherlock don't! It's a trap!" behind the duct tape.

 

Sherlock felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He knew that even a single whole pill could be lethal with his current BMI. 

 

"Go on. Go get your pills. But if you leave the flat or call someone on your phone, John is dead."

 

Sherlock felt his hands shaking and heart racing even more than usual. 

 

He slowly and unsteadily went to the kitchen cabinet where John thought Sherlock didn't know he had hid the pills. He then got a glass of water as well.

 

He returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa, the laptop in front of him and this stranger grinning gleefully at him. 

 

"Good boooy, Sherlock." Sherlock glared at him. "I knew you'd do  _anything_ for your _precious_ John Watson." 

 

Sherlock remained silent and looked down at the blister pack he fiddled with in his hands. 

 

"Do it. Now, Sherlock." The guy commanded now.

 

Sherlock kept fiddling with the blister pack. He didn't want to play this game.

 

"Sherlock. If you don't take the first pill in the next ten seconds, I'll shoot John myself." The guy threatened now, and Sherlock started to pop out a pill.

 

"That's it. Time to take your..  _medicine_." 

 

John mmm-screamed repeatedly as Sherlock slowly lifted the pill with a shaking hand.

"Quiet!!!" The stranger yelled at John and pointed a gun at him. 

 

Sherlock was just inches away from putting the pill into his mouth when the laptop speakers let out a loud bang and then a shot, and the stranger dropped dead to the ground. 

The sudden noise startled Sherlock enough to drop the pill, and John seemed to be just as startled but also utterly relieved on the screen.

 

Four people in black clothes stormed into the room on screen and started untying John, as the door to flat 221B burst open as well, and Mycroft alone ran over to his little brother.

 

Sherlock was so shaken up, he didn't care that he started crying uncontrollably on his brothers shoulder as he was hugged tightly. 

 

"It's over. It's okay now, little brother. It's over." Mycroft told him over and over as he just let his brother sob for minutes on end. 

 

He still held him when his workers brought John safely back to the flat, and only let go of his little brother when John went to take his place. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * If you cannot imagine the description, look up 'types of depression' on google and click on images or a page that has them in a visual graph. The first part is 'dysthemia' and the second is meant as 'depressive episode', but both connected.
> 
>  
> 
> The hacker thing was inspired by the movie "Cyberbully" from 2015. I recently got around 50+ hate comments on a Facebook post in a supportgroup, when I asked for funny pics or memes to help me with my intense struggle to stay clean. It escalated for some reason with people commenting "imagine using mental illness as an excuse for being a shitty person" and other things like that.
> 
> Well, I left the group. And right when I went on instagram afterwards, I had a comment on there, telling me to "go cry about it or kill yourself if it's so bad" after I commented on a meme page (which I unfollowed that morning afterwards) that was making fun of anorexia, that it's no laughing matter and has the highest mortality rate of all mental illnesses.
> 
> So yeah, I always gotta fight through such unnecessary stuff because of stupid people on the internet.


	12. The Eyes Of The Addict

 

It was past 9 in the morning when John was washing his breakfast plate in the sink. He had checked in on the younger man a few times all morning, always afraid that Sherlock was awake, crying, needing someone; but he had always just been fast asleep.

John was a bit startled when the flat door opened and the 'huhu' of Mrs Hudson bringing something up didn't happen. So he wasn't surprised when the elder Holmes brother stood in the living room, surprisingly without his umbrella, but a briefcase. John suddenly realized that Mycroft had been without the umbrella the night before, too.

John walked over to him while he dried his hands with the kitchen towel. "Mycroft."

"A good morning to you too, John." Mycroft said, but without the 'I'm above you' voice. "I trust he is still asleep?" Mycroft asked, pointing to Sherlock's bedroom door.

John nodded. "I'm letting him sleep in. He obviously needs it after..." he trailed off, not really sure how to name the event last night. 

Mycroft seemed just as uncomfortable, but John figured it was because of how vulnerable his younger brother had been. "That's why I'm here." He started and put his briefcase on the living room table, opening it up and taking out a bunch of pictures. "Your captivator and Sherlock's threatener, was no other than James Moriarty."

"Moriarty..." John murmured the name as he looked through the pictures of when the man had still been alive. "I've heard this before somewhere... Oh! On our first case together, the cabbie had said the name to Sherlock." 

Mycroft winced, and John didn't think that was a good sign. "Why did neither of you ever tell me this? Moriarty is-  _ was _ a man not to be fooled around with."

John took this in. "You knew him, then."

Mycroft sighed. "Yes. He was, regrettably a person that I had no control over. What ever he wanted, he got. Over the last week I had noticed his intense .. interest in my brother. He had somehow hacked into the medical files and found out that he was on medication, before I could stop him. I can't say what else he has gained the knowledge of."

John was torn inside at the words. He was partly absolutely paranoid about what might happen next, since this guy didn't sound like he did things halfway; and absolutely furious. Couldn't they  _ Ever _ catch a break?

"I'm sorry. John." Mycroft said and quietly put his briefcase back together. He left the flat without another word.

#

John spent the next hour staring unseeingly at the TV, currently running a mindless comedy soap, not even registering when Sherlock had finally woken up and gone to the bathroom.

He was too busy thinking. Thinking what this Moriarty guy could have planned, what more would happen. Thinking about how Sherlock must feel...

When said person suddenly stomped into the living room, rubbing at his eyes. "Cancel all appointments; I can't be seen like this." He sounded distressed, and John wondered what exactly he meant.

He knew soon enough when Sherlock put down his hands and looked at John with completely bloodshot eyes, and very dilated pupils. All questions of 'how are you feeling' flew out the window.

"Jesus." John breathed and jumped up to take a closer look. 

He gently turned Sherlock and led him to the bathroom. He'd need his doctor flashlight. 

"Sit down." Doctor-Mode John commanded Sherlock and gently pushed him down to sit on the bathtub rim. John was getting his doctor bag out from the cupboard under the sink. 

He tested the flashlight and then went over to Sherlock and directed the light to his left eye. The younger immediately flinched and John apologized. They tried it again and John noticed how the pupil barely constricted in the direct light. He didn't bother trying it with the other eye.

John was packing up and storing his bag back where he got it without a word.

Sherlock was staring at his reflection in the sink mirror. "Whelp. I have the eyes of an addict. Again. .... Mycroft and Lestrade can't see me like this." He said to probably more himself than John, and rubbed at his eyes again.

John frowned at him. "Stop doing that."

"They're dry and itch." 

"You're making it worse."

"I don't care."

John sighed and decided to just grab his hands to  _ make _ him stop. Sherlock shot him a death glare.

"While we're already in here, how about a quick step on the scale?" John said and let go of his hands. He picked up the scale leaning against the wall, put it down in front of his friend and turned it on.

Sherlock only glared still, but stepped on it without fuss. 

John raised an eyebrow at the number. This couldn't be correct. It just couldn't.

"Go back off and on again." John commanded.

Sherlock just sighed, but complied.

The scale said the same again. John put a hand over his face and let it slowly drop again. " **_ How _ ** can you  _ still _ lose weight with the meds you're on?" Sure, he had barely eaten yesterday, but he shouldn't have lost 4 pounds from that.

"I don't know! With everything I've been stuffing my face I should have gained a stone or something by now!" Sherlock finally snapped at the doctor.

And John couldn't agree more. But it wasn't happening.  _ Why?  _ This needed further investigation.

John put the scale back to the wall and grabbed Sherlock's arm. "Sofa, now." He said and pulled the detective after him.

"Lay down on your back. I want to feel your stomach." John told him, earning him a questioning glare. John sighed. "Just do it. Please."

Sherlock just slumped down, getting as comfortable as possible with his feet hanging off the arm rest at the end, and leaning his head against the other.

John stood over him now. "I'm just going to feel around, alright? Tell me if there is any pain." 

Sherlock only gave him the 'okay'-nod and tried to relax his stomach muscles under John's warm hands. 

John wasn't pleased by how much he could feel the others ribs through the thin fabric of his dressing gown, but focused on trying to find any blockages or possible injuries inside his friends intestines. 

Much to John ’ s dismay, it was all just.... still. A bit bloated maybe. 

Only the steady, quick pulsing of the abdominal artery showed signs of life. No rumbling stomach despite the lack of food in almost a day, and not so much as a twitch from the rest of the digestive system. It was all just.... paralyzed?  _ Please no.  _

Sherlock must have seen John's frown. The doctor turned to face him, hands still on his skin and all. "Sherlock when was your last bowel movement?"

It probably should have been an embarrassing question, had Sherlock not been used to literally living with a doctor. "I don't know, two days? Probably three."

John considered this. It was very ridiculous indeed. It wasn't a lack in fibre, he'd made sure of that. 

"It's normal." Sherlock suddenly said. "It's always been like this."

John stared at him for a moment. "And I'm guessing that you never had any fat, either." Recalling what he had heard when Sherlock had been arguing with Mycroft, that was probably the case. He sighed at Sherlocks shake of his head. "It's not normal. I get that it seems like that to you, when you always experienced it like that, but it isn't normal, and also not healthy."

John finally removed his hands from Sherlocks abdomen, probably creeped out at the stillness. He thought for a moment, trying to form the question as not to make it too weird in the morning. 

"Any constipation? Diarrhea? Bloating? Sorry, I know you only got up a bit ago but this is important." 

Sherlock shrugged. Very helpful.

"Sherlock." 

Alright, so he didn't want to answer. Fine then. "Stay there, I'm getting my stethoscope." He said and went back to the bathroom. 

He came back, already putting the ear pieces in as he walked over to Sherlock again. He gently tapped the end to make sure it was intact, warned Sherlock as he lifted the shirt, that "this could be cold", and gently placed it on his pale skin.

With massive relief, he heard the faintest sounds of a gut moving. Albeit with great pauses in-between, it was still working. So no full paralysis, just the pre-stage, subileus. Not the most common in regards to neurologic issues, but John was willing to bet it was the depression, maybe worsened by the antidepressants. 

John lifted the round piece off him and pulled the ear pieces out again. He took a deep breath. This was why he wasn't gaining any weight. His guts were, at least partly, paralyzed. To what extent, he couldn't tell. But there were no signs of infections, and he could still pass food, so that calmed him the tiniest bit.

If it had always been like this, like Sherlock had said, then it was really no wonder why he could go days without food when he was on cases. 

Sherlock was looking at him with those big pupils, probably making his own deductions.

First his stomach, when he was withdrawing from the Zoloft, and now the rest of it was partly paralyzed. And while yes, it was more like an on-and-off thing, that he had days where his guts wouldn't  _ stop _ making sounds, he had the dead silence and stillness the majority of the time. 

_ The sudden, cold realization that this was just proof that his body was slowly shutting down, slowly being killed by an illness that nobody could even see, that nothing could cure or remove...  _

John wordlessly stood up and left, to put the stethoscope away again.

_ Apparently they both had this realization. _

__

_ And it was not okay with either of them. _

 [[Ending song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=FULPliwzjcs) of this chapter]

****

** I FINALLY got the [trailer](https://youtu.be/4aB5SRK3dRg) on YouTube without copystrike! **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Lord, why do I keep torturing them... a quick warning: John will do the 'unthinkable' in the next chapter. Please don't hate him for it, it's just a normal part of.. being on the other side of this illness.


	14. Shit hit the fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss me?

 

They had gone out on a walk that evening, despite Sherlock's reluctance and "what if the CCTV cameras can pick up on my eyes?", to which John told him that he was getting paranoid over nothing.

They walked in complete silence for the better part of an hour, before Sherlock finally admitted to the pains starting up again, when John caught him starting to limp. 

 

It was nearly eight in the evening when they got back to the flat. "I can't believe that you still won't tell me anything. I thought you trusted me!" John complained as he threw the keys and his jacket down on the back of his armchair. 

"I do trust you.." Sherlock argued.

"Well you obviously don't! I meant to go on a walk to get you calmed down, get your mind a bit distracted, not torture you into walking if you were in pain!" 

Sherlock just slumped down on the sofa, curling in on himself slowly and in stiff movements. John sighed. "Hold on, I'm getting your meds." He said and stalked over to the kitchen.

 

"Huhu, I heard you boys coming back." Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to come into their flat with a plate with tea and biscuits. 

Sherlock shut his eyes into a frown. He just wanted to be alone, why was that so hard to understand? 

"Yes, we're back." John said tightly, and Mrs Hudson gave him a sad look. "I brought you boys some tea and snacks." She offered in that sweet, innocent tone, and it made Sherlock just want to push her out and slam the door behind her.

John approached him with a cup of water and his tiny half of a pill. "Here." He said, holding them out to him.

Sherlock put his hands over his face as he exhaled heavily. He then slowly sat up on the sofa and Mrs Hudson came over as well, to put the plate in front of him.

"Oh my poor Sherlock... I wish there was more I could do to help." She suddenly said and it was the final straw.

Sherlock just snapped, back to life as well as at the other people in the room. "You lot are driving me crazy!" He snapped at them, crossing his arms over his chest and made to go to his room, but John held him back. "You stay right here! What the hell is wrong with you?!" He asked him in more his doctor voice than a friend, and Sherlock just felt more alone in this moment than he did in the psych ward as a teen. "Do you have even the slightest idea of what it's like? To live like this?" Sherlock asked him, his fire gone. 

John shook his head and let go of him. "No. I don't." He told him, their eyes staring into each other.

"Then leave me alone." And with that he marched off into his room. 

 

John heaved a sigh and Mrs Hudson put a hand on his shoulder. He looked over at her. "Maybe I should listen to him. If he needs to be alone then I should let him." 

Mrs Hudson looked sad at his words, but shook her head at herself. "Do whatever you think is best, John. In the end the only person who can help Sherlock is Sherlock." She told him sadly. "I'll keep an eye on him." She promised John with a hint of a smile.

 

John had gone upstairs to pack a few things, then left the flat, took out his phone, and called Greg. "Hey, Greg, it's me, John. .... Yes, I know what time it is. Look... can I crash with you for a bit?"

 

 

\---

 

 

Greg had welcomed him. His wife was away, so he was glad for another presence in the otherwise empty house. 

He let John settle into the guest room, but they had to end up talking.

It had been overdue for some time.

 

"So what exactly is up with Sherlock?" Greg asked him. He had been left in the dark for so long now, and John felt horribly guilty. More so for keeping it a secret, than spilling them without Sherlock's consent.

"He's.... he's sick." John finally decided.

"Sick." John nodded. "As in... oh geez it's not cancer, is it?"

'In a way,' John thought morbidly. "Not exactly."

Greg looked at him dumbfoundedly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

John took a deep breath. It was now or never. "He's depressed. _Severely_  depressed. Like, it may as well be cancer, that's how much it's robbing his life. Our life." 

Greg seemed to be taken aback, pondering over it as he just stirred his late night coffee in thought for a good ten minutes, of which neither man knew what to say.

 

 

\---

 

 

Sherlock had gone out of his room, the pains just getting worse from not moving, in hopes of that a bit of pacing would help, even though he already knew that only his meds could help at this point, and he was getting desperate for relief.

 

He looked longingly at his violin. How badly he just wanted to put that bow on the strings, his hands in the familiar positions and just pour his heart and soul into the melodies. 

He traced the wood of the body with a finger for a moment. Then plucked a string; it was out of tune. Heck, the whole thing was probably out of tune by now, by more than one note. He hadn't touched it in ages. 

Despite the pain starting to spread through his wrists and elbows he gently picked it up and very carefully tuned each string. 

He paused again for a few minutes, then picked up the bow, just balancing it in his hand for a moment before tightening the hairs. 

He put the instrument onto his shoulder, his left arm bringing it into position, his hand curling around the fingerboard. He managed a rather stiff bow hold and brought it up, setting the bow on the A string.

 

And then bringing it back down again, without the slightest sound. He couldn't do it. It was like there was a huge brick wall inside his head. 

He mournfully brought the instrument back down, loosened the hairs and put both violin and bow back into their case. 

 

The next thing he knew was that the room was an absolute mess, his hand was bleeding and the window was broken.

 

 

\---

 

 

"So you're saying he'd been like this before?"

"Yeah, at least that's what he told me." 

"How old was he?"

"A teen."

"Gosh..." Greg commented and John nodded. He couldn't agree more with that.

"He's on medication but... it's only getting worse now. I don't know what to do anymore." John admitted. 

"What about therapy?" Greg asked. "Like, those loony bins."

John glared. "Don't call them that. And from what I know, he had been in a psychiatric hospital before and his brother keeps trying to get him to go back to one, but Sherlock's completely against it. And honestly I wouldn't feel safer if he was in one of those. Not knowing how he's doing."

"From what you told me and seeing how you are here with me and not him, I don't think you know how he is doing lately, either. Sorry, no offense mate."

"No, I guess you're right. But I only seem to make it worse. The more I try, the more he just gets more riled up and... I don't think he trusts me, still."

Greg smirked. "Sherlock doesn't trust _anyone_ , it's just who he is."

John shook his head. "No, I think that's his illness. Trust issues. I would know about that." 

"Well what are we supposed to do now? I obviously can't have him working, but giving him a purpose and making him feel useful might just be what he needs right now."

"Well he definitely needs some positive events, achievements, but at the same time it's a risk because there is always the possibility of failure, and that could ruin him."

"Look at you, going all therapist." Greg joked. "So what do you propose we do?"

 

John's phone suddenly chimed with a text message. Fully expecting it to be Sherlock, John immediately opened it and read it out loud.

 

"Turn on the TV, now. Doesn't matter what channel. MH" John and Greg looked at each other and the latter grabbed the remote control. 

They came face to face with no other than Moriarty, grinning like an utter psychopath. He had a piece of paper and proudly read from it. **"He was on so many medications! Fluoxetine, Sertraline and now he's on Mirtazapine! Not to mention the Morphine and Cocaine abuse, tsk tsk oooh boy was he a drug head-"**

"What in the world is he talking about? And who is he?" Greg asked John, completely puzzled. John was staring speechlessly at the screen for a moment. "Sherlock's medical records..."

**"And here is his stay at the Feel Well hospital: Patient William Sherlock Scott Holmes came to us in a completely catatonic state. He is relatively shy and doesn't want to answer questions. He seems to lack trust in anyone and he exhibits signs of depression. Movements and reflexes are slow-"**

Greg's phone started ringing. Donovan. "Yes?" "Are you seeing this?" "Yes, watching it with my own eyes." "I don't believe this! We have been working with someone who is nowhere _near_ mentally stable! Had he signed a contract to work for us officially, we could lose our jobs!" "I know that! We'll talk tomorrow, we have to get this off, right now!" He yelled and hung up. 

John watched as the TV screen suddenly turned into static and his phone chimed again. "Got it taken down. Don't let my brother know about this. MH"

"So Mycroft knows that I'm not at home." John concluded.

"Would have surprised me if he hadn't." Greg commented.

John put his phone away and sighed. "Fuck, what are we gonna do about this?"

Greg seemed as lost as him.

 

 

 

 


	15. My traumatic experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a chapter to this work, but a chapter of my life.

 

 

My traumatic experience 

 

 

So, a lot of you are probably wondering why my updates suddenly stopped, everywhere. 

 

Before I start telling, please please please leave now if hospitals, doctors, surgeries, all kinds of tubes inside a body, coughing blood, near death experiences or medical interventions trigger you. It doesn't make you less caring, and I just want you all to be safe.

 

 

Okay so, on the 21st of August I had major surgery of my jaws, called a "B-Max". Basically both of my jaws were cut and re-positioned. Planned was that I'd be asleep until the middle of the next day, while intubated because I could suffocate from the extreme swelling (you can find pictures on my instagramxenay99 ) and with a nasogastric tube so that I couldn't coke on my vomit, and a Foley catheter because of how long I was supposed to be asleep.

 

Yeah, you probably already guessed it; I woke up at night. Because my asthma lungs were completely closed, with so much mucus like URGH. So one funny thing is that when you are intubated (through the nose since they had to operate in my mouth), you cannot make a single noise and you cannot cough. I had a woman with curly black hair down to her shoulders standing behind me, yelling at a man on the side of the screeching monitor (since my blood oxygen must have dropped and probably my heart rate super high; I have chronic tachycardia so readings of up to 160 bpm are normal when just walking, but the painkillers they gave me there had my pulse completely normal. Sadly those painkillers have killed my grandma because they cause kidney failure, so I got off of them as soon as possible) asking him how I could possibly be awake. On the right in front of me was one of those food tray wagon thingies with a clipboard and a blank paper, along with a blue thin pen (I'm just explaining all of this in detail because I still remember EVERYTHING.) and my dyslexic ass managed to write 'sthatus asthmraticuss' but the message got across. For those who don't know what it means, it's basically when your entire bronchi have closed up from the inflammation and mucus that comes from an asthma attack, and it causes a ton of deaths every year if not medically treated immediately. I don't really know how this happened next since I only had one tubus through my nose, which was causing the severe asthma attacks (yes, plural.) but anyways: I got some connection piece between the oxygen I was apparently connected to and my tube, that immediately filled my lungs with some sort of reliever medication, and the woman then came with some sort of suction thingy, you know those that dentists have? And she somehow got it through the tube as well and told me to cough. 

 

I don't even wanna describe it but gosh, weirdest feeling EVER. And it's not like when you normally cough and you'd cough it up. You just sound like you're dry heaving liquids. Like. I can't even describe it.

 

Anyways, they gave me more of the sedativ stuff after I could breathe again. Only to wake maybe an hour or so later, again, with exactly the same problem.

 

Repeat. Woke up again, and I guess maybe they have this rule that '3 times a charm' means after the third time they just gotta get the tube out because it was more of a risk than being without. So this elder guy is there and while holding the end of the breathing tube in my nose closed with his fingers, he also accidentally held my nose closed, and told me to breathe (so that they could be sure that the swelling wasn't interfering) and gosh. You lay there in the ITU, surrounded by complete strangers, who block out all your oxygen supplies, and tells you to try to breathe. Well, after about ten seconds of fearing that I would suffocate Now, I managed to breathe little bubbles through the other nose hole with the nasogastric tube. Nurses happy, they pulled that thing out.

 

And let me tell you, I thought they were gonna rip my nose bone from my face. Because those things have a round, thicker plastic at the end. And all that blood was just pouring out and I was coughing blood from my completely ruined asthma bronchi-

 

And I was So thirsty. Like, it hurt to swallow, so dry was my throat and mouth. And I wasn't allowed to drink until the end of the day because of the risk of me throwing up. 

So here is a little fun fact about nasogastric tubes that are connected to bags. I got moved to the normal station at around... I think 12 o clock or something, my mum already waiting in the room and talking to my room mate. She had been wondering where I was because I was supposed to be moved that morning, and when she asked the workers, they told her that I was sleeping peacefully. YEAH RIGHT.

Anyways. So I get wheeled to my room, completely exhausted and just f*cking done with this world, (coughing up so much blood the entire two weeks after that) and my mum wants to sit on my bed to touch me or something, and she moves the puke bag (lets call it that) from my bed down to the floor. 

Major. Mistake. 

Turns out, all that got collected in the bag flows upwards. So I had about half a liter of stomach acid slooowly going through my nose, down my throat, into my stomach, and I just yell at her to put the f**** thing back up. And thus began the slooooow process of it all going back out from my stomach, through my nose into the bag. And I just said "omg I'm gonna puke." Well I obviously did through the tube but let me just say that this was agonizing because of how slow it goes and you feel SO SICK. I haven't thrown up since I was maybe 7. So that was one hell of an experience.

 

And then there was that catheter between my legs. If you never had one before, let me tell you that that shit hurts like absolute hell. I can't speak for guys but woooooh. I couldn't move my body without being in agony. And I didn't care about anything when I just begged one of the (female) nurses to get that thing out. 

Well according to google, those things are supposed to be removed slowly. And she ripped it right out so fast, jesus. I only just got rid of the UTI that she gave me from that. It's November now. And yeah, I have nerve damage in my back and am sometimes more, sometimes less urinary incontinent, which can make it hard to notice if I have an infection because I can't feel a thing sometimes and get those pretty often, but this lasted for Months. Just, wow. (After that one experience with an urologist, I won't go to a doctor about something like this unless it turns into a kidney infection again. I don't care what you think of me for this.) 

 

Shortly after being released from the hospital, me and my family went to Italy for a much needed vacation. And while we were there, someone dear to me had lost the fight against cancer. It wasn't even half a year from the diagnosis to the.. death. 

 

So... that pretty much sums up most of it. I still have flashbacks of it, especially nasty now that the weather is such a killer to my asthma and every time I have an attack (almost every day) it makes me relive the whole sucking out mucus and coughing into nothing, and I'm afraid that it's turning into PTSD. Yes, I know what PTSD is like, I already suffer from it from something else. But right now I just can't focus on pretty much anything, so writing has been just staring at a blank page with my thoughts running wild and more often than not, ending in flashbacks. So I'm sorry for not updating, but I have to deal with this right now.

**Author's Note:**

> I currently don't know where this will be going since my illness is at an incurable stage and I got maybe 15 years left, most likely less, the way things are going, and I'm just twenty years old so this Note is just depressing as hell to write.. I just needed to vent and have someone listen to me, I guess...


End file.
